I 


TCS 8  LIBRARY 


The  STORY  of 

MARY  MAC  LANE 


MART  MAC  LANE 


The  STORY 

of 
MARY  MAC  LANE 


BY    HERSELF 


CHICAGO 

HERBERT  S.  STONE  AND  COMPANY 
MCMII 


COPYRIGHT,  1902,  BY 
HERBERT  S.  STONE  &  CO 
PUBLISHED  APRIL  26,  IQO2 


The  Story  of  Mary  Mac  Lane 


Butte,  flDontana, 
•franuarg  13,  1001. 

I  OF  womankind  and  of  nineteen 
years,  will  now  begin  to  set  down 
as  full  and  frank  a  Portrayal  as  I 
am  able  of  myself,  Mary  Mac  Lane,  for 
whom  the  world  contains  not  a  parallel. 

I  am  convinced  of  this,  for  I  am  odd. 

I  am  distinctly  original  innately  and 
in  development. 

I  have  in  me  a  quite  unusual  intensity 
of  life. 

I  can  feel. 

I  have  a  marvelous  capacity  for  mis 
ery  and  for  happiness. 

I  am  broad-minded. 

I  am  a  genius. 

I  am  a  philosopher  of  my  own  good 
peripatetic  school. 


2    THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

I  care  neither  for  right  nor  for 
wrong — my  conscience  is  nil. 

My  brain  is  a  conglomeration  of  ag 
gressive  versatility. 

I  have  reached  a  truly  wonderful 
state  of  miserable  morbid  unhappiness. 

I  know  myself,  oh,  very  well. 

I  have  attained  an  egotism  that  is 
rare  indeed. 

I  have  gone  into  the  deep  shadows. 

All  this  constitutes  oddity.  I  find, 
therefore,  that  I  am  quite,  quite  odd. 

I  have  hunted  for  even  the  sugges 
tion  of  a  parallel  among  the  several 
hundred  persons  that  I  call  acquaint 
ances.  But  in  vain.  There  are  people 
and  people  of  varying  depths  and  intri 
cacies  of  character,  but  there  is  none  to 
compare  with  me.  The  young  ones  of 
my  own  age — if  I  chance  to  give  them 
but  a  glimpse  of  the  real  workings  of 
my  mind — can  only  stare  at  me  in  dazed 
stupidity,  uncomprehending;  and  the 
old  ones  of  forty  and  fifty — for  forty 
and  fifty  are  always  old  to  nineteen — 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE    3 

can  but  either  stare  also  in  stupidity,  or 
else,  their  own  narrowness  asserting 
itself,  smile  their  little  devilish  smile  of 
superiority  which  they  reserve  indis 
criminately  for  all  foolish  young  things. 
The  utter  idiocy  of  forty  and  fifty  at 
times! 

These,  to  be  sure,  are  extreme  in 
stances.  There  are  among  my  young 
acquaintances  some  who  do  not  stare 
in  stupidity,  and  yes,  even  at  forty  and 
fifty  there  are  some  who  understand 
some  phases  of  my  complicated  charac 
ter,  though  none  to  comprehend  it  in 
its  entirety. 

But,  as  I  said,  even  the  suggestion  of 
a  parallel  is  not  to  be  found  among 
them. 

I  think  at  this  moment,  however,  of 
two  minds  famous  in  the  world  of  let 
ters  between  which  and  mine  there  are 
certain  fine  points  of  similarity.  These 
are  the  minds  of  Lord  Byron  and  of 
Marie  Bashkirtseff.  It  is  the  Byron  of 
"Don  Juan"  in  whom  I  find  suggestions 


4    THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

of  myself.  In  this  sublime  outpouring 
there  are  few  to  admire  the  character 
of  Don  Juan,  but  all  must  admire 
Byron.  He  is  truly  admirable.  He 
uncovered  and  exposed  his  soul  of 
mingled  good  and  bad — as  the  terms 
are — for  the  world  to  gaze  upon.  He 
knew  the  human  race,  and  he  knew 
himself. 

As  for  that  strange  notable,  Marie 
Bashkirtseff,  yes,  I  am  rather  like  her 
in  many  points,  as  I've  been  told.  But 
in  most  things  I  go  beyond  her. 

Where  she  is  deep,  I  am  deeper. 

Where  she  is  wonderful  in  her  inten 
sity,  I  am  still  more  wonderful  in  my 
intensity. 

Where  she  had  philosophy,  I  am  a 
philosopher. 

Where  she  had  astonishing  vanity 
and  conceit,  I  have  yet  more  astonish 
ing  vanity  and  conceit. 

But  she,  forsooth,  could  paint  good 
pictures, — and  I — what  can  I  do? 

She  had  a  beautiful  face,  and  I  am  a 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE    5 

^>lam-featured,  insignificant  little  ani 
mal. 

She  was  surrounded  by  admiring, 
sympathetic  friends,  and  I  am  alone — 
alone,  though  there  are  people  and 
people. 

She  was  a  genius,  and  still  more  am  I 
a  genius. 

She  suffered  with  the  pain  of  a 
woman,  young;  and  I  suffer  with  the 
pain  of  a  woman,  young  and  all  alone. 

And  so  it  is. 

Along  some  lines  I  have  gotten  to 
the  edge  of  the  world.  A  step  more 
and  I  fall  off.  I  do  not  take  the  step. 
I  stand  on  the  edge,  and  I  suffer. 

Nothing,  oh,  nothing  on  the  earth 
can  suffer  like  a  woman  young  and  all 
alone! 

— Before  proceeding  farther  with  the 
Portraying  of  Mary  Mac  Lane,  I  will 
write  out  some  of  her  uninteresting  his 
tory. 

I  was  born  in  1881  at  Winnepeg,  in 
Canada.  Whether  Winnepeg  will  yet 


6    THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

live  to  be  proud  of  this  fact  is  a  matted 
for  some  conjecture  and  anxiety  on  my 
part.  When  I  was  four  years  old  I  was 
taken  with  my  family  to  a  little  town  in 
western  Minnesota,  where  I  lived  a 
more  or  less  vapid  and  lonely  life  until 
I  was  ten.  We  came  then  to  Mon 
tana. 

Whereat  the  aforesaid  life  was  con 
tinued. 

My  father  died  when  I  was  eight. 

Apart  from  feeding  and  clothing  me 
comfortably  and  sending  me  to  school — • 
which  is  no  more  than  was  due  me — • 
and  transmitting  to  me  the  Mac  Lane 
blood  and  character,  I  can  not  see  that 
he  ever  gave  me  a  single  thought. 

Certainly  he  did  not  love  me,  for  he 
was  quite  incapable  of  loving  any  one 
but  himself.  And  since  nothing  is  of 
any  moment  in  this  world  without  the 
love  of  human  beings  for  each  other,  it 
is  a  matter  of  supreme  indifference  to 
me  whether  my  father,  Jim  Mac  Lane 
of  selfish  memory,  lived  or  died. 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE    7 

f    He  is  nothing  to  me. 

There  are  with  me  still  a  mother,  a 
sister,  and  two  brothers. 

They  also  are  nothing  to  me. 

They  do  not  understand  me  any  more 
than  if  I  were  some  strange  live  curi 
osity,  as  which  I  dare  say  they  regard 
me. 

I  am  peculiarly  of  the  Mac  Lane 
blood,  which  is  Highland  Scotch.  My 
sister  and  brothers  inherit  the  traits  of 
their  mother's  family,  which  is  of 
Scotch  Lowland  descent.  This  alone 
makes  no  small  degree  of  difference. 
Apart  from  this  the  Mac  Lanes — these 
particular  Mac  Lanes — are  just  a  little 
bit  different  from  every  family  in  Can 
ada,  and  from  every  other  that  I've 
known.  It  contains  and  has  contained 
fanatics  of  many  minds — religious,  so 
cial,  whatnot,  and  I  am  a  true  Mac 
Lane. 

There  is  absolutely  no  sympathy  be 
tween  my  immediate  family  and  me. 
There  can  never  be.  My  mother,  hav- 


8         THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

ing  been  with  me  during  the  whole  of* 
my  nineteen  years,  has  an  utterly  dis 
torted  idea  of  my  nature  and  its  de 
sires,  if  indeed  she  has  any  idea  of  it. 

When  I  think  of  the  exquisite  love 
and  sympathy  which  might  be  between 
a  mother  and  daughter,  I  feel  myself 
defrauded  of  a  beautiful  thing  right 
fully  mine,  in  a  world  where  for  me 
such  things  are  pitiably  few. 

It  will  always  be  so. 

My  sister  and  brothers  are  not  inter 
ested  in  me  and  my  analyses  and 
philosophy,  and  my  wants.  Their  own 
are  strictly  practical  and  material.  The 
love  and  sympathy  between  human 
beings  is  to  them,  it  seems,  a  thing  only 
for  people  in  books. 

In  short,  they  are  Lowland  Scotch, 
and  I  am  a  Mac  Lane. 

And  so,  as  I've  said,  I  carried  my  un 
interesting  existence  into  Montana. 
The  existence  became  less  uninterest 
ing,  however,  as  my  versatile  mind  be 
gan  to  develop  and  grow  and  know  the 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE    Q 

glittering  things  that  are.  But  I  real 
ized  as  the  years  were  passing  that  my 
own  life  was  at  best  a  vapid,  negative 
thing. 

A  thousand  treasures  that  I  wanted 
were  lacking. 

I  graduated  from  the  high  school 
with  these  things:  very  good  Latin; 
good  French  and  Greek;  indifferent 
geometry  and  other  mathematics;  a 
broad  conception  of  history  and  liter 
ature;  peripatetic  philosophy  that  I 
acquired  without  any  aid  from  the  high 
school;  genius  of  a  kind,  that  has 
always  been  with  me;  an  empty  heart 
that  has  taken  on  a  certain  wooden 
quality;  an  excellent  strong  young 
woman's-body;  a  pitiably  starved  soul. 

With  this  equipment  I  have  gone  my 
way  through  the  last  two  years.  But 
my  life,  though  unsatisfying  and 
warped,  is  no  longer  insipid.  It  is 
fraught  with  a  poignant  misery — the 
misery  of  nothingness. 

I  have  no  particular  thing  to  occupy 


IO   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

me.  I  write  every  day.  Writing  is  a 
necessity— like  eating.  I  do  a  little 
housework,  and  on  the  whole  I  am 
rather  fond  of  it — some  parts  of  it.  I 
dislike  dusting  chairs,  but  I  have  no 
aversion  to  scrubbing  floors.  Indeed, 
I  have  gained  much  of  my  strength  and 
gracefulness  of  body  from  scrubbing 
the  kitchen  floor — to  say  nothing  of 
some  fine  points  of  philosophy.  It 
brings  a  certain  energy  to  one's  body 
and  to  one's  brain. 

But  mostly  I  take  walks  far  away  in 
the  open  country.  Butte  and  its  imme 
diate  vicinity  present  as  ugly  an  outlook 
as  one  could  wish  to  see.  It  is  so  ugly 
indeed  that.it  is  near  the  perfection  of 
ugliness.  And  anything  perfect,  or 
nearly  so,  is  not  to  be  despised.  I  have 
reached  some  astonishing  subtleties  of 
conception  as  I  have  walked  for  miles 
over  the  sand  and  barrenness  among 
the  little  hills  and  gulches.  Their  utter 
desolateness  is  an  inspiration  to  the 
long,  long  thoughts  and  to  the  nameless 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE        II 

wanting.  Every  day  I  walk  over  the 
sand  and  barrenness. 

And  so,  then,  my  daily  life  seems  an 
ordinary  life  enough,  and  possibly,  to 
an  ordinary  person,  a  comfortable  life. 

That's  as  may  be. 

To  me  it  is  an  empty,  damned  weari 
ness. 

I  rise  in  the  morning;  eat  three 
meals;  and  walk;  and  work  a  little, 
read  a  little,  write;  see  some  uninter 
esting  people;  go  to  bed. 

Next  day,  I  rise  in  the  morning;  eat 
three  meals;  and  walk;  and  work  a 
little,  read  a  little,  write;  see  some  un 
interesting  people;  go  to  bed. 

Again  I  rise  in  the  morning;  eat 
three  meals;  and  walk;  and  work  a 
little,  read  a  little,  write;  see  some  un 
interesting  people;  go  to  bed. 

Truly  an  exalted,  soulful  life! 

What  it  does  for  me,  how  it  affects 
me,  I  am  now  trying  to  portray. 


January  14. 

1HAVE  in  me  the  germs  of  intense 
life.  If  I  could  live,  and  if  I  could 
succeed  in  writing  out  my  living, 
the  world  itself  would  feel  the  heavy 
intensity  of  it. 

I  have  the  personality,  the  nature,  of 
a  Napoleon,  albeit  a  feminine  transla 
tion.  And  therefore  I  do  not  conquer; 
I  do  not  even  fight.  I  manage  only  to 
exist. 

Poor  little  Mary  Mac  Lane!  —  what 
might  you  not  be?  What  wonderful 
things  might  you  not  do?  But  held 
down,  half-buried,  a  seed  fallen  in  bar 
ren  ground,  alone,  uncomprehended, 
obscure  —  poor  little  Mary  Mac  Lane! 
Weep,  world, — why  don't  you?  —  for 
poor  little  Mary  Mac  Lane! 

Had  I  been  born  a  man  I  would  by 
now  have  made  a  deep  impression  of 
myself  on  the  world — on  some  part  of 
it.  But  I  am  a  woman,  and  God,  or  the 

12 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       13 

Devil,  or  Fate,  or  whosoever  it  was,  has 
flayed  me  of  the  thick  outer  skin  and 
thrown  me  out  into  the  midst  of  life — 
has  left  me  a  lonely,  damned  thing 
filled  with  the  red,  red  blood  of  ambi 
tion  and  desire,  but  afraid  to  be 
touched,  for  there  is  no  thick  skin  be 
tween  my  sensitive  flesh  and  the  world's 
fingers. 

But  I  want  to  be  touched. 

Napoleon  was  a  man,  and  though 
sensitive  his  flesh  was  safely  covered. 

But  I  am  a  woman,  awakening,  and 
upon  awakening  and  looking  about  me, 
I  would  fain  turn  and  go  back  to  sleep. 

There  is  a  pain  that  goes  with  these 
things  when  one  is  a  woman,  young, 
and  all  alone. 

I  am  filled  with  an  ambition.  I  wish 
to  give  to  the  world  a  naked  Portrayal 
of  Mary  Mac  Lane:  her  wooden  heart, 
her  good  young  woman's  -  body,  her 
mind,  her  soul. 

I  wish  to  write,  write,  write! 

I    wish    to    acquire    that    beautiful, 


14   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

benign,  gentle,  satisfying  thing — Fame. 
I  want  it — oh,  I  want  it!  I  wish  to  leave 
all  my  obscurity,  my  misery — my  weary 
unhappiness — behind  me  forever. 

I  am  deadly,  deadly  tired  of  my  un 
happiness. 

I  wish  this  Portrayal  to  be  published 
and  launched  into  that  deep  salt  sea — 
the  world.  There  are  some  there 
surely  who  will  understand  it.  and  me. 

Can  I  be  that  thing  which  I  am — can 
I  be  possessed  of  a  peculiar  rare  genius, 
and  yet  drag  out  my  life  in  obscurity  in 
this  uncouth,  warped,  Montana  town  ? 

It  must  be  impossible!  If  I  thought 
the  world  contained  nothing  more  than 
that  for  me — oh,  what  should  I  do  ? 
Would  I  make  an  end  of  my  dreary 
little  life  now?  I  fear  I  would.  I  am  a 
philosopher — and  a  coward.  And  it 
were  infinitely  better  to  die  now  in  the 
high-beating  pulses  of  youth  than  to 
drag  on,  year  after  year,  year  after 
year,  and  find  oneself  at  last  a  stagnant 
old  woman,  spiritless,  hopeless,  with  a 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE   1 5 

declining  body,  a  declining  mind, — and 
nothing  to  look  back  upon  except  the 
visions  of  things  that  might  have  been — 
and  the  weariness. 

I  see  the  picture.  I  see  it  plainly. 
Oh,  kind  Devil,  deliver  me  from  it! 

Surely  there  must  be  in  a  world  of 
manifold  beautiful  things  something 
among  them  for  me.  And  always, 
while  I  am  still  young,  there  is  that  dim 
light,  the  Future.  But  it  is  indeed  a 
dim,  dim  light,  and  ofttimes  there's  a 
treachery  in  it. 


January  15. 

SO  THEN,  yes.     I  find  myself  at  this 
stage  of  womankind  and  nineteen 
years,  a  genius,  a  thief,  a  liar — a 
general  moral  vagabond,  a  fool  more  or 
less,  and  a  philosopher  of  the  peripa 
tetic  school.     Also  I  find  that  even  this 
combination  can  not  make  one  happy. 
It  serves,  however,  to  occupy  my  versa 
tile  mind,  to  keep  me  wondering  what 
it  is  a  kind  Devil  has  in  store  for  me. 

A  philosopher  of  my  own  peripatetic 
school — hour  after  hour  I  walk  over 
the  desolate  sand  and  dreariness  among 
tiny  hills  and  gulches  on  the  outskirts 
of  this  mining  town;  in  the  morning,  in 
the  long  afternoon,  in  the  cool  of  the 
night.  And  hour  after  hour,  as  I  walk, 
through  my  brain  some  long,  long 
pageants  march:  the  pageant  of  my 
fancies,  the  pageant  of  my  unparalleled 
egotism,  the  pageant  of  my  unhappi- 
ness,  the  pageant  of  my  minute  analyz- 

16 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE        17 

ing,  the  pageant  of  my  peculiar 
philosophy,  the  pageant  of  my  dull, 
dull  life, — and  the  pageant  of  the  Possi 
bilities. 

We  three  go  out  on  the  sand  and 
barrenness:  my  wooden  heart,  my  good 
young  woman's-body,  my  soul.  We  go 
there  and  contemplate  the  long  sandy 
wastes,  the  red,  red  line  on  the  sky  at 
the  setting  of  the  sun,  the  cold  gloomy 
mountains  under  it,  the  ground  without 
a  weed,  without  a  grass-blade  even  in 
their  season — for  they  have  years  ago 
been  killed  off  by  the  sulphur  smoke 
from  the  smelters. 

So  this  sand  and  barrenness  forms 
the  setting  for  the  personality  of  me. 


16, 

I  FEEL  about  forty  years  old. 
Yet  I  know  my  feeling  is  not  the 
feeling  of  forty  years.     These  are 
the    feelings    of    miserable,    wretched 
youth. 

Every  day  the  atmosphere  of  a  house 
becomes  unbearable,  so  every  day  I  go 
out  to  the  sand  and  barrenness.  It  is 
not  cold,  neither  is  it  mild.  It  is 
gloomy. 

I  sit  for  two  hours  on  the  ground  by 
the  side  of  a  pitiably  small  narrow 
stream  of  water.  It  is  not  even  a  nat 
ural  stream.  I  dare  say  it  comes  from 
some  mine  among  the  hills.  But  it  is 
well  enough  that  the  stream  is  not  nat 
ural — when  you  consider  the  sand  and 
barrenness.  It  is  singularly  appropri 
ate. 

And  I  am  singularly  appropriate  to 
all  of  them.  It  is  good,  after  all,  to  be 
appropriate  to  something — to  be  in 

18 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE   1 9 

touch  with  something,  even  sand  and 
barrenness.  The  sand  and  barrenness 
is  old — oh,  very  old.  You  think  of  this 
when  you  look  at  it. 

What  should  I  do  if  the  earth  were 
made  of  wood,  with  a  paper  sky! 

I  feel  about  forty  years  old. 

And  again  I  say  I  know  my  feeling  is 
not  the  feeling  of  forty  years.  These 
are  the  feelings  of  miserable,  wretched 
youth. 

Still  more  pitiable  than  the  sand  and 
barrenness  and  the  poor  unnatural 
stream  is  the  dry,  warped  cemetery 
where  the  dry,  warped  people  of  Butte 
bury  their  dead  friends.  It  is  a  source 
of  satisfaction  to  me  to  walk  down  to 
this  cemetery  and  contemplate  it,  and 
revel  in  its  utter  pitiableness. 

"It  is  more  pitiable  than  I  and  my 
sand  and  barrenness  and  my  poor  un 
natural  stream,"  I  say  over  and  over, 
and  take  my  comfort. 

Its  condition  is  more  forlorn  than  that 
of  a  woman  young  and  alone.  It  is  un- 


2O   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

kempt.  It  is  choked  with  dust  and 
stones  The  few  scattered  blades  of 
grass  look  rather  ashamed  to  be  seen 
growing  there.  A  great  many  of  the 
headstones  are  of  wood  and  are  in  a 
shameful  state  of  decay.  Those  that 
are  of  stone  are  still  more  shameful  in 
their  hard  brightness. 

The  dry,  warped  friends  of  the  dry, 
warped  people  of  Butte  are  buried  in 
this  dusty,  dreary,  wind-havocked  waste. 
They  are  left  here  and  forgotten. 

The  Devil  must  rejoice  in  this  grave 
yard. 

And  I  rejoice  with  the  Devil. 

It  is  something  for  me  to  contemplate 
that  is  more  pitiable  than  I  and  my 
sand  and  barrenness  and  my  unnatural 
stream. 

I  rejoice  with  the  Devil. 

The  inhabitants  of  this  cemetery  are 
forgotten.  I  have  watched  once  the 
burying  of  a  young  child.  Every  day 
for  a  fortnight  afterward  I  came  back, 
and  I  saw  the  mother  of  the  child  there. 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       21 

SHe  came  and  stood  by  the  small  new 
grave.  After  a  few  days  more  she 
stopped  coming. 

I  knew  the  woman  and  went  to  her 
house  to  see  her.  She  was  beginning 
to  forget  the  child.  She  was  beginning 
to  take  up  again  the  thread  of  her  life 
where  she  had  let  it  go.  The  thread  of 
her  life  is  involved  in  the  divorces  and 
fights  of  her  neighbors. 

Out  in  the  warped  graveyard  her 
child  is  forgotten.  And  presently  the 
wooden  headstone  will  begin  to  decay. 
But  the  worms  will  not  forget  their 
part.  They  have  eaten  the  small  body 
by  now,  and  enjoyed  it.  Always  worms 
enjoy  a  body  to  eat. 

And  also  the  Devil  rejoiced. 

And  I  rejoiced  with  the  Devil. 

They  are  more  pitiable,  I  insist,  than 
I  and  my  sand  and  barrenness — the 
mother  whose  life  is  involved  in  di 
vorces  and  fights,  and  the  worms  eating 
at  the  child's  body,  and  the  wooden 
headstone  which  will  presently  decay. 


22   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

And  so  the  Devil  and  I  rejoice. 

But  no  matter  how  ferociously  piti 
able  is  the  dried-up  graveyard,  the  sand 
and  barrenness  and  the  sluggish  little 
stream  have  their  own  persistent  indi 
vidual  damnation.  The  world  is  at 
least  so  constructed  that  its  treasures 
may  be  damned  each  in  a  different 
manner  and  degree. 

I  feel  about  forty  years  old. 

And  I  know  my  feeling  is  not  the  feel 
ing  of  forty  years.  They  do  not  feel 
any  of  these  things  at  forty.  At  forty 
the  fire  has  long  since  burned  out. 
When  I  am  forty  I  shall  look  back  to 
myself  and  my  feelings  at  nineteen — 
and  I  shall  smile. 

Or  shall  I  indeed  smile? 


17. 

AS  I  have  said,  I  want  Fame.  I 
want  to  write — to  write  such 
things  as  compel  the  admiring 
acclamations  of  .the  world  at  large;  such 
things  as  are  written  but  once  in  years, 
things  subtly  but  distinctly  different 
from  the  books  written  every  day. 

I  can  do  this. 

Let  me  but  make  a  beginning,  let  me 
but  strike  the  world  in  a  vulnerable 
spot,  and  I  can  take  it  by  storm.  Let 
me  but  win  my  spurs,  and  then  you  will 
see  me — of  womankind  and  young — 
valiantly  astride  a  charger  riding  down 
the  world,  with  Fame  following  at  the 
charger's  heels,  and  the  multitudes 
agape. 

But  oh,  more  than  all  this  I  want  to 
be  happy! 

Fame  is  indeed  benign   and   gentle 

and  satisfying.     But  Happiness  is  some- 
23 


24   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

thing  at  once  tender  and  brilliant  be 
yond  all  things. 

I  want  Fame  more  than  I  can  tell. 

But  more  than  I  want  Fame  I  want 
Happiness.  I  have  never  been  happy 
in  my  weary  young  life. 

Think,  oh,  think,  of  being  happy  for 
a  year — for  a  day!  How  brilliantly 
blue  the  sky  would  be;  how  swiftly  and 
joyously  would  the  green  rivers  run; 
how  madly,  merrily  triumphant  the 
four  winds  of  heaven  would  sweep 
round  the  corners  of  the  fair  earth! 

What  would  I  not  give  for  one  day, 
one  hour,  of  that  charmed  thing  Happi 
ness!  What  would  I  not  give  up? 

How  we  eager  fools  tread  on  each 
other's  heels,  and  tear  each  other's 
hair,  and  scratch  each  other's  faces,  in 
our  furious  gallop  after  Happiness! 
For  some  it  is  embodied  in  Fame,  for 
some  in  Money,  for  some  in  Power,  for 
some  in  Virtue — and  for  me  in  some 
thing  very  much  like  love. 

None  of  the  other  fools  desires  Hap- 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       25 

piness  as  I  desire  it.  For  one  single 
hour  of  Happiness  I  would  give  up  at 
once  these  things:  Fame,  and  Money, 
and  Power,  and  Virtue,  and  Honor,  and 
Righteousness,  and  Truth,  and  Logic, 
and  Philosophy,  and  Genius.  The 
while  I  would  say,  What  a  little,  little 
price  to  pay  for  dear  Happiness! 

I  am  ready  and  waiting  to  give  all 
that  I  have  to  the  Devil  in  exchange 
for  Happiness.  I  have  been  tortured 
so  long  with  the  dull,  dull  misery  of 
Nothingness — all  my  nineteen  years.  I 
want  to  be  happy — oh,  I  want  to  be 
happy! 

The  Devil  has  not  yet  come.  But  I 
know  that  he  usually  conies,  and  I  wait 
him  eagerly. 

I  am  fortunate  that  I  am  not  one  of 
those  who  are  burdened  with  an  innate 
sense  of  virtue  and  honor  which  must 
come  always  before  Happiness.  They 
are  but  few  who  find  their  Happiness 
in  their  Virtue.  The  rest  of  them 
must  be  content  to  see  it  walk  away. 


26   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

But   with    me   Virtue   and    Honor  are 
nothing. 

I  long  unspeakably  for  Happiness. 

And  so  I  await  the  Devil's  coming. 


•January  18, 

AND  meanwhile  —  as  I  wait  —  my 
mind  occupies  itself  with  its  own 
good  odd  philosophy,  so  that 
even  the  Nothingness  becomes  almost 
endurable. 

The  Devil  has  given  me  some  good 
things — for  I  find  that  the  Devil  owns 
and  rules  the  earth  and  all  that  therein 
is.  He  has  given  me,  among  other 
things — my  admirable  young  woman's- 
body,  which  I  enjoy  thoroughly  and.  of 
which  I  am  passionately  fond. 

A  spasm  of  pleasure  seizes  me  when 
I  think  in  some  acute  moment  of  the 
buoyant  health  and  vitality  of  this  fine 
young  body  that  is  feminine  in  every 
fiber. 

You  may  gaze  at  and  admire  the  pic 
ture  in  the  front  of  this  book.  It  is  the 
picture  of  a  genius — a  genius  with  a 
good  strong  young  woman's-body, — and 
inside  the  pictured  body  is  a  liver,  a 
27 


28   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

Mac  Lane  liver,  of  admirable  perfect- 
ness. 

Other  young  women  and  older  wo 
men  and  men  of  all  ages  have  good 
bodies  also,  I  doubt  not — though  the 
masculine  body  is  merely  flesh,  it 
seems,  flesh  and  bones  and  nothing 
else.  But  few  recognize  the  value  of 
their  bodies;  few  have  grasped  the 
possibilities,  the  artistic  graceful  per 
fection,  the  poetry  of  human  flesh  in  its 
health.  Few  have  even  sense  enough 
indeed  to  keep  their  flesh  in  health,  or 
to  know  what  health  is  until  they  have 
ruined  some  vital  organ,  and  so  ban 
ished  it  forever. 

I  have  not  ruined  any  of  my  vital 
organs,  and  I  appreciate  what  health 
is.  I  have  grasped  the  art,  the  poetry 
of  my  fine  feminine  body. 

This  at  the  age  of  nineteen  is  a  tri 
umph  for  me. 

Sometime  in  the  midst  of  the  bright 
ness  of  an  October  I  have  walked  for 
miles  in  the  still  high  air  under  the  blue 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       2Q 

of  the  sky.  The  brightness  of  the  day 
and  the  blue  of  the  sky  and  the  incom 
parable  high  air  have  entered  into  my 
veins  and  flowed  with  my  red  blood. 
They  have  penetrated  into  every  re 
mote  nerve-center  and  into  the  marrow 
of  my  bones. 

At  such  a  time  this  young  body  glows 
with  life. 

My  red  blood  flows  swiftly  and  joy 
ously — in  the  midst  of  the  brightness  of 
October. 

My  sound,  sensitive  liver  rests  gently 
with  its  thin  yellow  bile  in  sweet  con 
tent. 

My  calm,  beautiful  stomach  silently 
sings,  as  I  walk,  a  song  of  peace. 

My  lungs,  saturated  with  mountain 
ozone  and  the  perfume  of  the  pines, 
expand  in  continuous  ecstasy. 

My  heart  beats  like  the  music  of 
Schumann,  in  easy,  graceful  rhythm 
with  an  undertone  of  power. 

My  strong  and  sensitive  nerves  are 
reeking  and  swimming  in  sensuality 


3O       THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

like  drunken  little  Bacchantes,  gay  and 
garlanded  in  mad  revelling. 

The  entire  wonderful,  graceful  mech 
anism  of  my  woman's-body  has  fallen 
at  the  time — like  the  wonderful,  grace 
ful  mechanism  of  my  woman's-mind — 
under  the  enchanting  spell  of  a  day  in 
October. 

"It  is  good,"  I  think  to  myself,  "oh,  it 
is  good  to  be  alive!  It  is  wondrously 
good  to  be  a  woman  young  in  the  full 
ness  of  nineteen  springs.  It  is  unutter 
ably  lovely  to  be  a  healthy  young 
animal  living  on  this  charmed  earth." 

After  I  have  walked  for  several  hours 
I  reach  a  region  where  the  sulphur 
smoke  has  not  penetrated,  and  I  sit  on 
the  ground  with  drawn-up  knees  and 
rest  as  the  shadows  lengthen.  The 
shadows  lengthen  early  in  October. 

Presently  I  lie  flat  on  my  back  and 
stretch  my  lithe  slimness  to  its  utmost 
like  a  mountain  lioness  taking  her  com 
fort.  I  am  intensely  thankful  to  the 
Devil  for  my  two  good  legs  and  the  full 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE   3! 

use  of  them  under  a  short  skirt,  when, 
as  now,  they  carry  me  out  beyond  the 
pale  of  civilization  away  from  tiresome 
dull  people.  There  is  nothing  in  the 
world  that  can  become  so  maddeningly 
wearisome  as  people,  people,  people! 

And  so,  Devil,  accept,  for  my  two 
good  legs,  my  sincerest  gratitude.  I  lie 
on  the  ground  for  some  minutes  and 
meditate  idly.  There  is  a  worldful  of 
easy  indolent,  beautiful  sensuality  in 
the  figure  of  a  young  woman  lying  on 
the  ground  under  a  warm  setting  sun. 
A  man  may  lie  on  the  ground — but  that 
is  as  far  as  it  goes.  A  man  would  go 
to  sleep,  probably,  like  a  dog  or  a  pig. 
He  would  even  snore,  perhaps — under 
the  setting  sun.  But  then,  a  man  has 
not  a  good  young  feminine  body  to  feel 
with,  to  receive  into  itself  the  spirit  of 
a  warm  sun  at  its  setting,  on  a  day  in 
October, — and  so  let  us  forgive  him  for 
sleeping,  and  for  snoring. 

When  I  rise  again  to  a  sitting  posture 
all  the  brightness  has  focused  itself  to 


32   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

the  west.  It  casts  a  yellow  glamor 
over  the  earth,  a  glamor  not  of  joy,  nor 
of  pleasure,  nor  of  happiness — but  of 
peace. 

The  young  poplar  trees  smile  gently 
in  the  deathly  still  air.  The  sage  brush 
and  the  tall  grass  take  on  a  radiant 
quietness.  The  high  hills  of  Montana, 
near  and  distant,  appear  tender  and 
benign.  All  is  peace — peace.  I  think 
of  that  beautiful  old  song: 

"Sweet  vale  of  Avoca!  how  calm  could  I  rest 
In  thy  bosom  of  shade ." 

But  I  am  too  young  yet  to  think  of 
peace.  It  is  not  peace  that  I  want. 
Peace  is  for  forty  and  fifty.  I  am  wait 
ing  for  my  Experience. 

I  am  awaiting  the  coming  of  the 
Devil. 

And  now,  just  before  twilight,  after 
the  sun  has  vanished  over  the  edge,  is 
the  red,  red  line  on  the  sky. 

There  will  be  days  wild  and  stormy, 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       33 

filled  with  rain  and  wind  and  hail;  and 
yet  nearly  always  at  the  sun's  setting 
there  will  be  calm — and  the  red  line  of 
sky. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  world  quite 
like  this  red  sky  at  sunset.  It  is  Glory, 
Triumph,  Love,  Fame! 

Imagine  a  life  bereft  of  things,  and 
fingers  pointed  at  it,  and  eyebrows 
raised;  tossed  and  bandied  hither  and 
yon;  crushed,  beaten,  bled,  rent  asun 
der,  outraged,  convulsed  with  pain;  and 
then,  into  this  life  while  still  young,  the 
red,  red  line  of  sky! 

Why  did  I  cry  out  against  Fate,  says 
the  line;  why  did  I  rebel  against  my 
term  of  anguish!  I  now  rather  rejoice 
at  it;  now  in  my  Happiness  I  remember 
it  only  with  deep  pleasure. 

Think  of  that  wonderful,  admirable, 
matchless  man  of  steel,  Napoleon  Bona 
parte.  He  threw  himself  heavily  on 
the  world,  and  the  world  has  never  since 
been  the  same.  He  hated  himself,  and 
the  world,  and  God,  and  Fate,  and  the 


34   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

Devil.  His  hatred  was  his  term  of 
anguish. 

Then  the  sun  threw  on  the  sky  for 
him  a  red,  red  line — the  red  line  of 
Triumph,  Glory,  Fame! 

And  afterward  there  was  the  black 
ness  of  Night,  the  blackness  that  is  not 
tender,  not  gentle. 

But  black  as  our  Night  may  be, 
nothing  can  take  from  us  the  memory 
of  the  red,  red  sky.  "Memory  is  pos 
session,"  and  so  the  red  sky  we  have 
with  us  always. 

Oh,  Devil,  Fate,  World — some  one, 
bring  me  my  red  sky!  For  a  little  brief 
time,  and  I  will  be  satisfied.  Bring  it 
to  me  intensely  red,  intensely  full,  in 
tensely  alive!  Short  as  you  will,  but 
red,  red,  red! 

I  am  weary — weary,  and,  oh,  I  want 
my  red  sky!  Short  as  it  might  be,  its 
memory,  its  fragrance  would  stay  with 
me  always — always.  Bring  me,  Devil, 
my  red  line  of  sky  for  one  hour  and 
take  all,  all — everything  I  possess.  Let 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       35 

me  keep  my  Happiness  for  one  short 
hour,  and  take  away  all  from  me  for 
ever.  I  will  be  satisfied  when  Night 
has  come  and  everything  is  gone. 

Oh,  I  await  you,  Devil,  in  a  wild 
frenzy  of  impatience! 

And  as  I  hurry  back  through  the  cool 
darkness  of  October,  I  feel  this  frenzy 
in  every  fiber  of  my  fervid  woman's- 
body. 


January  19. 

I  COME  from  a  long  line  of  Scotch 
and  Canadian  Mac  Lanes.    There 
are  a  great   many  Mac  Lanes,  but 
there  is  usually  only  one  real  Mac  Lane 
in  each  generation.     There  is  but  one 
who  feels  again  the  passionate  spirit  of 
the  clans,  thosefbarbaric  dwellers  in  the 
bleak,   but  well-beloved   Highlands  of 
Scotland. 

I  am  the  real  Mac  Lane  of  my  gener 
ation.  The  real  Mac  Lane  in  these 
later  centuries  is  always  a  woman. 
The  men  of  the  family  never  amount  to 
anything  worth  naming — if  one  accepts 
the  acme,  the  zenith,  of  pure  selfish 
ness,  with  a  large  letter  "s."  Life  may 
be  easy  enough  for  the  innumerable 
Canadian  Mac  Lanes  who  are  not  real. 
But  it  is  certain  to  be  more  or  less  a 
Hill  of  Difficulty  for  the  one  who  is. 
She  finds  herself  somewhat  alone.  I 
have  brothers  and  a  sister  and  a  mother 
36 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       37 

in  the  same  house  with  me — and  I  find 
myself  somewhat  alone.  Between 
them  and  me  there  is  no  tenderness,  no 
sympathy,  no  binding  ties.  Would  it 
affect  me  in  the  least — do  you  sup 
pose — if  they  should  all  die  to-morrow? 
If  I  were  not  a  real  Mac  Lane  perhaps 
it  would  have  been  different,  or  per 
haps  I  should  not  have  missed  these 
things. 

How  much,  Devil,  have  I  lost  for  the 
privilege  of  being  a  real  Mac  Lane? 

But  yes,  I  have  also  gained  much. 


January  20. 

I  HAVE  said  that  I  am  alone. 
I  am  not  quite,  quite  alone. 
I  have  one  friend  —  of  that 
Friendship  that  is  real  and  is  inlaid 
with  the  beautiful  thing  Truth.  And 
because  it  has  the  beautiful  thing  Truth 
in  it,  this  my -one  Friendship  is  some 
how  above  and  beyond  me;  there  is 
something  in  it  that  I  reach  after  in 
vain  — for  I  have  not  that  divinely 
beautiful  thing  Truth.  Have  I  not 
said  that  I  am  a  thief  and  a  liar?  But 
in  this  Friendship  nevertheless  there 
is  a  rare,  ineffably  sweet  something 
that  is  mine.  It  is  the  one  tender  thing 
in  this  dull  dreariness  that  wraps  me 
round. 

Are  there  many  things  in  this  cool- 
hearted  world  so  utterly  exquisite  as 
the  pure  love  of  one  woman  for  an 
other  woman? 

My   one    friend   is    a  woman    some 
twelve  or  thirteen  years  older  than  I. 
38 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       39 

She  is  as  different  from  me  as  is  day 
from  night.  She  believes  in  God — that 
God  that  is  shown  in  the  Bible  of  the 
Christians.  And  she  carries  with  her 
an  atmosphere  of  gentleness  and  truth. 
The  while  I  am  ready  and  waiting  to 
dedicate  my  life  to  the  Devil  in  ex 
change  for  Happiness — or  some  lesser 
thing.  But  I  love  Fannie  Corbin  with 
a  peculiar  and  vivid  intensity,  and  with 
all  the  sincerity  and  passion  that  is  in 
me.  Often  I  think  of  her,  as  I  walk 
over  the  sand  in  my  Nothingness,  all 
day  long.  The  Friendship  of  her  and 
me  is  a  fair,  dear  benediction  upon  me, 
but  there  is  something  in  it — deep 
within  it — that  eludes  me.  In  moments 
when  I  realize  this,  when  I  strain  and 
reach  vainly  at  a  thing  beyond  me, 
when  indeed  I  see  in  my  mind  a  vision 
of  the  personality  of  Fannie  Corbin,  it 
is  then  that  it  comes  on  me  with  force 
that  I  am  not  good. 

But  I  can  love  her  with  all  the  ardor 
of  a  young  and  passionate  heart. 


4O   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

Yes,  I  can  do  that. 

For  a  year  I  have  loved  my  one 
friend.  During  the  eighteen  years  of 
my  life  before  she  came  into  it  I  loved 
no  one,  for  there  was  no  one. 

It  is  an  extremely  hard  thing  to  go 
through  eighteen  years  with  no  one  to 
love,  and  no  one  to  love  you — the  first 
eighteen  years. 

But  now  I  have  my  one  friend  to  love 
and  to  worship. 

I  have  named  my  friend  the  "anem 
one  lady,"  a  name  beautifully  appro 
priate. 

The  anemone  lady  used  to  teach  me 
literature  in  the  Butte  High  School. 
She  used  to  read  poetry  in  the  class 
room  in  a  clear,  sweet  voice  that  made 
)ne  wish  one  might  sit  there  forever 
and  listen  to  it. 

But  now  I  have  left  the  high  school, 
and  the  dear  anemone  lady  has  gone 
from  Butte.  Before  she  went  she  told 
me  she  would  be  my  friend. 

Think  of  it — to  live  and  have  a  friend! 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE   4! 

My  friend  does  not  fully  understand 
me;  she  thinks  much  too  well  of  me. 
She  has  not  a  correct  idea  of  my  soul's 
depths  and  shallows.  But  if  she  did 
know  them  she  would  still  be  my  friend. 
She  knows  the  heavy  weight  of  my  un 
rest  and  unhappiness.  She  is  tenderly 
sympathetic.  She  is  the  one  in  all  the 
world  who  is  dear  to  me. 

Often  I  think,  if  only  I  could  have  my 
anemone  lady  and  go  and  live  with  her 
in  some  little  out-of-the-world  place 
high  up  on  the  side  of  a  mountain  for 
the  rest  of  my  life — what  more  would  I 
desire?  My  friendship  would  constitute 
my  life.  The  unrest,  the  dreariness,  the 
Nothingness  of  my  existence  now  is  so 
dull  and  gray  by  contrast  that  there 
would  be  Happiness  for  me  in  that  life, 
Happiness  softly  radiant,  if  quiet — 
redolent  of  the  fresh,  thin  fragrance  of 
the  dear  blue  anemone  that  grows  in 
the  winds  and  rains  of  spring. 

But  Miss  Corbin  would  doubtless 
look  somewhat  askance  at  the  idea  of 


42   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

spending  the  rest  of  her  life  with  me  on 
a  mountain.  She  is  very  fond  of  me, 
but  her  feeling  for  me  is  not  like  mine 
for  her,  which  indeed  is  natural.  And 
her  life  is  made  up  mostly  of  sacri 
fices — doing  for  her  fellow-creatures, 
giving  of  herself.  She  never  would 
leave  this. 

And  so,  then,  the  mountainside  and 
the  solitude  and  the  friend  with  me  are, 
like  every  good  thing,  but  a  vision. 

"Thy  friend  is  always  thy  friend;  not 
to  have,  nor  to  hold,  nor  to  love,  nor  to 
rejoice  in:  but  to  remember." 

And  so  do  I  remember  my  one 
friend,  the  anemone  lady — and  think 
often  about  her  with  passionate  love. 


January  21. 

HAPPINESS,  don't  you  know,  is 
of  three  kinds — and  all  are  tran 
sitory.  It  never  stays,  but  it 
comes  and  goes. 

There  is  that  happiness  that  comes 
from  newly-washed  feet,  for  instance, 
and  a  pair  of  clean  stockings  on  them, 
particularly  after  one  has  been  upon  a 
tramp  into  the  country.  Always  I  have 
identified  this  kind  of  happiness  with  a 
Maltese  cat,  dipping  a  hungry,  stealthy, 
sensual  tongue  into  a  bowl  of  fresh, 
thick  cream. 

There  is  that  still  happiness  that  has 
come  to  me  at  rare  times  when  I  have 
been  with  my  one  friend — and  which 
does  very  well  for  people  whose  feel 
ings  are  moderate.  They  need  wish  for 
nothing  beyond  it.  They  could  not 
appreciate  anything  deeper. 

And  there  is  that  kind  of  happiness 
which  is  of  the  red  sunset  sky.  There 

43 


44   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

is  something  terrible  in  the  thought  of 
this  indescribable  mad  Happiness. 
What  a  thing  it  is  for  a  human  being  to 
be  happy — with  the  red,  red  Happiness 
of  the  sunset  sky! 

It's  like  a  terrific  storm  in  summer 
with  rain  and  wind,  beating  quiet  water 
into  wild  waves,  bending  great  trees  to 
the  ground,  —  convulsing  the  green 
earth  with  delicious  pain. 

It's  like  something  of  Schubert's 
played  on  the  violin  that  stirs  you 
within  to  exquisite  torture. 

It's  like  the  human  voice  divine  sing 
ing  a  Scotch  ballad  in  a  manner  to  drag 
your  soul  from  your  body. 

But  there  are  no  words  to  tell  it.  It 
is  something  infinitely  above  and  be 
yond  words.  It  is  the  kind  of  Happi 
ness  the  Devil  will  bring  to  me  when 
he  comes, — to  me,  to  me\  Oh,  why 
does  he  not  come  now  when  I  am  in 
the  midst  of  my  youth!  Why  is  he  so 
long  in  coming? 

Often  you  hear  a  dozen    stories  of 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       45 

how  the  Devil  was  most  ready  and  will 
ing  to  take  all  from  some  one  and  give 
him  his  measure  of  Happiness.  And 
sometimes  the  person  was  innately 
virtuous  and  so  could  not  take  the  Hap 
piness  when  it  was  offered.  But  Hap 
piness  is  its  own  justification,  and  it 
should  be  eagerly  grasped  when  it 
comes. 

A  world  filled  with  fools  will  never 
learn  this. 

And  so  here  I  stand  in  the  midst  of 
Nothingness  waiting  and  longing  for 
the  Devil,  and  he  doesn't  come.  I  feel 
a  choking,  strangling,  frenzied  feeling  of 
waiting — oh,  why  doesn't  my  Happiness 
come!  I  have  waited  so  long — so  long. 

There  are  persons  who  say  to  me 
that  I  ought  not  to  think  of  the  Devil, 
that  I  ought  not  to  think  of  Happi 
ness — Happiness  for  me  would  be  sure 
to  mean  something  wicked  (as  if  Hap 
piness  could  ever  be  wicked!);  that  I 
ought  to  think  of  being  good.  I  ought 
to  think  of  God.  These  are  persons 


46   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

who  help  to  fill  the  world  with  fools. 
At  any  rate  their  words  are  unable  to 
affect  me.  I  can  not  distinguish  be 
tween  right  and  wrong  in  this  scheme 
of  things.  It  is  one  of  the  lines  of 
reasoning  in  which  I  have  gotten  to  the 
edge,  the  end.  I  have  gotten  to  the 
point  to  which  all  logic  finally  leads.  I 
can  only  say,  What  is  wrong?  What  is 
right?  What  is  good?  What  is  evil? 
The  words  are  merely  words,  with 
word-meanings. 

Truth  is  Love,  and  Love  is  the  only 
Truth,  and  Love  is  the  one  thing  out  of 
all  that  is  real. 

The  Devil  is  really  the  only  one  to 
whom  we  may  turn,  and  he  exacts  pay 
ment  in  full  for  every  favor. 

But  surely  he  will  come  one  day  with 
Happiness  for  me. 

Yet,  oh,  how  can  I  wait! 

To  be  a  woman,  young  and  all  alone, 
is  hard — hard! — is  to  want  things,  is  to 
carry  a  heavy,  heavy  weight. 

Oh,  damn!  damn!  damn!   Damn 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE      47 

every  living  thing,  the  world! — the  uni 
verse  be  damned! 

Oh,  I  am  weary,  weary!  Can't  you 
see  that  I  am  weary  and  pity  me  in  my 
own  damnation? 


•January  22. 

IT  IS  night.  I  might  well  be  in  my 
bed  taking  a  needed  rest.  But 
first  I  shall  write. 

To-day  I  walked  far  away  over  the 
sand  in  the  teeth  of  a  bitter  wind. 
The  wind  was  determined  that  I  should 
turn  and  come  back,  and  equally  I  was 
determined  I  would  go  on.  I  went  on. 

There  is  a  certain  kind  of  wind  in  the 
autumn  to  walk  in  the  midst  of  which 
causes  one's  spirits  to  rise  ecstatically. 
To  walk  in  the  midst  of  a  bitter  wind 
in  January  may  have  almost  any  effect. 

To-day  the  bitter  wind  swept  over 
me  and  around  me  and  into  the  re 
mote  corners  of  my  brain  and  swept 
away  the  delusions,  and  buffeted  my 
philosophy  with  rough  insolence. 

The  world  is  made  up  mostly  of  noth 
ing.  You  may  be  convinced  of  this 
when  a  bitter  wind  has  swept  away 

your  delusions. 

48 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       49 

What  is  the  wind? 

Nothing. 

What  is  the  sky? 

Nothing. 

What  do  we  know? 

Nothing. 

What  is  fame? 

Nothing. 

What  is  my  heart? 

Nothing. 

What  is  my  soul? 

Nothing. 

What  are  we? 

We  are  nothing. 

We  think  we  progress  wonderfully  in 
the  arts  and  sciences  as  one  century 
follows  another.  What  does  it  amount 
to?  It  does  not  teach  us  the  all-why. 
It  does  not  let  us  cease  to  wonder  what 
it  is  that  we  are  doing,  where  it  is  that 
we  are  going.  It  does  not  teach  us  why 
the  green  comes  again  to  the  old,  old 
hills  in  the  spring;  why  the  benign 
balm-o'-Gilead  shines  wet  and  sweet 
after  the  rain;  why  the  red  never  faiU 


5O   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

to  come  to  the  breast  of  the  robin,  the 
black  to  the  crow,  the  gray  to  the  little 
wren;  why  the  sand  and  barrenness  lies 
stretched  out  around  us;  why  the 
clouds  float  high  above  us;  why  the 
moon  stands  in  the  sky,  night  after 
night;  why  the  mountains  and  valleys 
live  on  as  the  years  pass. 

The  arts  and  sciences  go  on  and  on — 
still  we  wonder.  We  have  not  yet 
ceased  to  weep.  And  we  suffer  still  in 
1902,  even  as  they  suffered  in  1802,  and 
in  802. 

To-day  we  eat  our  good  dinners  with 
forks. 

A  thousand  years  ago  they  had  no 
forks. 

Yet,  though  we  have  forks,  we  are 
not  happy.  We  scream  and  kick  and 
struggle  and  weep  just  as  they  did  a 
thousand  years  ago — when  they  had 
no  forks. 

We  are  "no  wiser  than  when  Omar 
fell  asleep." 

And  in  the  midst  of  our  great  won- 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       51 

dering,  we  wonder  why  some  of  us  are 
given  faith  to  trust  without  question, 
while  the  rest  of  us  are  left  to  eat  out 
our  life's  vitals  with  asking. 

I  have  walked  once  in  summer  by  the 
side  of  a  little  marsh  filled  with  mint 
and  white  hawthorn.  The  mint  and 
white  hawthorn  have  with  them  a  vivid, 
rare,  delicious  perfume.  It  makes  you 
want  to  grovel  on  the  ground — it  makes 
you  think  you  might  crawl  in  the  dust 
all  your  days,  and  well  for  you.  The 
perfume  lingers  with  you  afterward 
when  years  have  passed.  You  may 
scream  and  kick  and  struggle  and  weep 
right  lustily  every  day  of  your  life,  but 
in  your  moments  of  calmness  sometimes 
there  will  come  back  to  you  the  fra 
grance  of  a  swamp  filled  with  mint  and 
white  hawthorn. 

It  is  meltingly  beautiful. 

What  does  it  mean? 

What  would  it  tell? 

Why  does  the  marsh,  and  the  mint 
and  white  hawthorn,  freeze  over  in  the 


52   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

fall?  And  why  do  they  come  again, 
voluptuous,  enticing,  in  the  damp 
spring  days — and  rack  the  souls  of 
wretches  who  look  and  wonder? 

You  are  superb,  Devil!  You  have 
done  a  magnificent  piece  of  work.  I 
kneel  at  your  feet  and  worship  you. 
You  have  wrought  a  perfection,  a  pin 
nacle  of  fine,  invisible  damnation. 

The  world  is  like  a  little  marsh  filled 
with  mint  and  white  hawthorn.  It  is 
filled  with  things  likewise  damnably 
beautiful.  There  are  the  green,  green 
grass-blades  and  the  gray  dawns;  there 
are  swiftly-flowing  rivers  and  the  honk 
ing  of  wild  geese,  flying  low;  there  are 
human  voices  and  human  eyes;  there 
are  stories  of  women  and  men  who 
have  learned  to  give  up  and  to  wait; 
there  is  poetry;  there  is  Charity;  there 
is  Truth. 

The  Devil  has  made  all  of  these 
things,  and  also  he  has  made  human 
beings  who  can  feel. 

Who  was  it  that  said,  long  ago,  "Life 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       53 

is  always  a  tragedy  to  those  who 
feel"? 

In  truth,  the  Devil  has  constructed  a 
place  of  infinite  torture — the  fair  green 
earth,  the  world. 

But  he  has  made  that  other  infinite 
thing — Happiness.  I  forgive  him  for 
making  me  wonder,  since  possibly  he 
may  bring  me  Happiness.  I  cast  my 
self  at  his  feet.  I  adore  him. 

The  first  third  of  our  lives  is  spent  in 
the  expectation  of  Happiness.  Then  it 
comes,  perhaps,  and  stays  ten  years,  or 
a  month,  or  three  days,  and  the  rest  of 
our  lives  is  spent  in  peace  and  rest — 
with  the  memory  of  the  Happiness. 

Happiness — though  it  is  infinite — is  a 
transient  emotion. 

It  is  too  brilliant,  too  magnificent,  too 
overwhelming  to  be  a  lasting  thing. 
And  it  is  merely  an  emotion.  But, 
ah — such  an  emotion!  Through  it  the 
Devil  rules  his  domains.  What  would 
one  not  do  to  have  it! 

I  can  think  of  no  so-called  vile  deed 


54   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

that  I  would  scruple  about  if  I  could  be 
happy.  Everything  is  justified  if  it 
gives  me  Happiness.  The  Devil  has 
done  me  some  great  favors  ;  he  has 
made  me  without  a  conscience,  and 
without  Virtue. 

For  which  I  thank  thee,  Devil. 

At  least  I  shall  be  able  to  take  my 
Happiness  when  it  comes — even  though 
the  piles  of  nice  distinctions  between  it 
and  me  be  mountains  high. 

But  meanwhile,  the  world,  I  say,  and 
the  people  are  nothing,  nothing,  noth 
ing.  The  splendid  castles,  the  strong 
bridges,  that  we  are  building  are  of 
small  moment.  We  can  only  go  down 
the  wide  roadway  wondering  and  weep 
ing,  and  without  where  to  lay  our  heads. 


January  23, 

I  HAVE  eaten  my  dinner. 
I  have  had,  among  other  things, 
fine,     rare -broiled     porterhouse 
steak   from   Omaha,   and   some   fresh, 
green   young   onions   from    California. 
And  just  now  I  am  a  philosopher,  pure 
and  simple — except  that  there's  noth 
ing  very  pure  about  my  philosophy,  nor 
yet  very  simple. 

Let  the  Devil  come  and  go;  let  the 
wild  waters  rush  over  me;  let  nations 
rise  and  fall;  let  my  favorite  theories 
form  themselves  in  line  suddenly  and 
run  into  the  ground;  let  the  little  earth 
be  bandied  about  from  one  belief  to 
another;  but,  I  say  in  the  midst  of  my 
young  peripatetic  philosophy,  I  need 
not  be  in  complete  despair — the  world 
still  contains  things  for  me,  while  I 
have  my  fine  rare  porterhouse  steak 
from  Omaha — and  my  fresh  green 
young  onions  from  California. 

55 


56       THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

Fame  may  pass  over  my  head; 
money  may  escape  me;  my  one  friend 
may  fail  me;  every  hope  may  fold  its 
tent  and  steal  away;  Happiness  may 
remain  a  sealed  book;  every  remnant 
of  human  ties  may  vanish;  I  may  find 
myself  an  outcast;  good  things  held 
out  to  me  may  suddenly  be  withdrawn; 
the  stars  may  go  out,  one  by  one;  the 
sun  may  go  dark;  yet  still  I  may  hold 
upright  my  head,  if  I  have  but  my 
steak — and  my  onions. 

I  may  find  myself  crowded  out  from 
many  charmed  circles;  I  may  find  the 
ethical  world  too  small  to  contain  me; 
the  social  world  may  also  exclude  me; 
the  professional  world  may  know  me 
not;  likewise  the  worlds  of  the  arts  and 
the  sciences;  I  may  find  myself  super 
fluous  in  literary  haunts;  I  may  see  my 
self  going  gladly  back  to  the  vile  dust 
from  whence  I  sprung — to  live  in  a 
green  forest  like  the  melancholy 
Jacques;  but  fare  they  well,  I  will  say 
with  what  cheerfulness  I  can  summon, 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       57 

while  I  have  my  steak  —  and  my 
onions. 

Possibly  I  may  grow  old  and  decrepit; 
my  hair  may  turn  gray;  my  bones  may 
become  rheumatic;  I  may  grow  weak 
in  the  knees;  my  ankle-joints  which 
have  withstood  many  a  peripatetic 
journey  may  develop  dropsical  tend 
encies;  my  heart  may  miss  a  beat  now 
and  then;  my  lungs  may  begin  to  fight 
shy  of  wintry  blasts;  my  eyes  may  fail 
me;  my  figure  that  is  now  in  its  slim 
gracefulness  may  swathe  itself  in  lay 
ers  of  flesh,  or  worse,  it  may  wither  and 
decay  and  stoop  at  the  shoulders;  my 
red  blood  may  flow  sluggishly;  but  if  I 
still  have  left  teeth  to  eat  with,  why 
need  I  lament  while  I  have  my  steak — 
and  my  onions? 

I  am  obscure;  I  am  morbid;  I  am  un 
happy;  my  life  is  made  up  of  Nothing 
ness;  I  want  everything  and  I  have 
nothing;  I  have  been  made  to  feel  the 
"lure  of  green  things  growing,"  and  I 
have  been  made  to  feel  also  that  some- 


58   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

thing  of  them  is  withheld  from  me;  I 
have  felt  the  deadly  tiredness  that  is 
among  the  birthrights  of  a  human 
being;  but  with  it  all  the  Devil  has 
given  me  a  philosophy  of  my  own — the 
Devil  has  enabled  me  to  count,  if  need 
be,  the  world  well  lost  for  a  fine  rare 
porterhouse  steak — and  some  green 
young  onions. 

For  which  I  thank  thee,  Devil,  pro 
foundly. 

Who  says  the  Devil  is  not  your 
friend?  Who  says  the  Devil  does  not 
believe  in  the  all-merciful  Law  of  Com 
pensation? 

And  so  it  is — do  you  see? — that  all 
things  look  different  after  a  satisfying 
dinner,  that  the  color  of  the  world 
changes,  that  life  in  fact  resolves  itself 
into  two  things:  a  fine  rare-broiled  por 
terhouse  steak  from  Omaha,  and  some 
fresh  green  young  onions  from  Cali 
fornia. 


January  24. 

I  AM  charmingly  original.  I  am  de 
lightfully  refreshing.  I  am  start- 
lingly  Bohemian.  I  am  quaintly 
interesting— the  while  in  my  sleeve  I 
.may  be  smiling  and  smiling — and  a  vil 
lain.  I  can  talk  to  a  roomful  of  dull 
people  and  compel  their  interest,  ad 
miration,  and  astonishment.  I  do  this 
sometimes  for  my  own  amusement.  As 
I  have  said,  I  am  a  rather  plain- 
featured,  insignificant-looking  genius, 
but  I  have  a  graceful  personality.  I 
have  a  pretty  figure.  I  am  well  set  up. 
And  when  I  choose  to  talk  in  my 
charmingly  original  fashion,  embellish 
ing  my  conversation  with  many  quaint 
lies,  I  have  a  certain  very  noticeable 
way  with  me,  an  "air." 

It  is  well,  if  one  has  nothing  else,  to 
acquire  an  air.  And  an  air  taken  in 
conjunction  with  my  charming  origin 
ality,  my  delightfully  refreshing  candor, 

59 


6O   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

is  something  powerful  and  striking  in 
its  way. 

I  do  not,  however,  exert  myself  often 
in  this  way;  partly  because  I  can  some 
times  foresee,  from  the  character  of  the 
assembled  company,  that  my  perform 
ance  will  not  have  the  desired  effect — 
for  I  am  a  genius,  and  genius  at  close 
range  at  times  carries  itself  uncon 
sciously  to  the  point  where  it  becomes 
so  interesting  that  it  is  atrocious,  and 
can  not  be  carried  farther  without  hav 
ing  somewhat  mildly  disastrous  results; 
and  then,  again,  the  facial  antics  of 
some  ten  or  a  dozen  persons  possessed 
more  or  less  of  the  qualities  of  the 
genus  fool — even  they  become  tiresome 
after  a  while. 

Always  I  talk  about  myself  on  an 
occasion  of  this  kind.  Indeed,  my  con 
versation  is  on  all  occasions  devoted 
directly  or  indirectly  to  myself. 

When  I  talk  on  the  subject  of  ethics, 
I  talk  of  it  as  it  is  related  to  Mary  Mac 
Lane. 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE   6 1 

When  I  give  out  broad-minded  opin 
ions  about  Ninon  de  1'Enclos,  I  demon 
strate  her  relative  position  to  Mary 
Mac  Lane! 

When  I  discourse  liberally  on  the 
subject  of  the  married  relation,  I  talk  of 
it  only  as  it  will  affect  Mary  Mac  Lane. 

An  interesting  creature,  Mary  Mac 
Lane. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  so  with  every 
one,  only  every  one  is  far  from  realiz 
ing  and  acknowledging  it.  And  I  have 
not  lacked  listeners,  though  these 
people  do  not  appreciate  me.  They  do 
not  realize  that  I  am  a  genius. 

I  am  of  womankind  and  of  nineteen 
years.  I  am  able  to  stand  off  and 
gaze  critically  and  dispassionately  at 
myself  and  my  relation  to  my  environ 
ment,  to  the  world,  to  everything  the 
world  contains.  I  am  able  to  judge 
whether  I  am  good  and  whether  I  am 
bad.  I  am  able,  indeed,  to  tell  what  I 
am  and  where  I  stand.  I  can  see  far, 
far  inward.  I  am  a  genius. 


62   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

Charlotte  Bronte  did  this  in  some 
degree,  and  she  was  a  genius;  and  also 
Marie  Bashkirtseff,  and  Olive  Schreiner, 
and  George  Eliot.  They  are  all  gen 
iuses. 

And  so,  then,  I  am  a  genius — a 
genius  in  my  own  right. 

I  am  fundamentally,  organically 
egotistic.  My  vanity  and  self-conceit 
have  attained  truly  remarkable  de 
velopment  as  I've  walked  and  walked 
in  the  loneliness  of  the  sand  and 
barrenness.  Not  the  least  remarkable 
part  of  it  is  that  I  know  my  egotism 
and  vanity  thoroughly  —  thoroughly, 
and  plume  myself  thereon. 

These  are  the  ear-marks  of  a  genius — 
and  of  a  fool.  There  is  a  finely-drawn 
line  between  a  genius  and  a  fool. 
Often  this  line  is  overstepped  and  your 
fool  becomes  a  genius,  or  your  genius 
becomes  a  fool, 

It  is  but  a  tiny  step. 

There's  but  a  tiny  step  between  the 
great  and  the  little,  the  tender  and  the 


THE    STORY  OF    MARY    MAC  LANE      63 

contemptuous,  the  sublime  and  the 
ridiculous,  the  aggressive  and  the  hum 
ble,  the  paradise  and  the  perdition. 

And  so  is  it  between  the  genius  and 
the  fool. 

I  am  a  genius. 

I  am  not  prepared  to  say  how  many 
times  I  may  overstep  the  finely-drawn 
line,  or  how  many  times  I  have  already 
overstepped  it.  'Tis  a  matter  of  small 
moment. 

I  have  entered  into  certain  things 
marvelously  deep.  I  know  things,  I 
know  that  I  know  them,  and  I  know 
that  I  know  that  I  know  them,  which  is 
a  fine  psychological  point. 

It  is  magnificent  of  me  to  have  got 
ten  so  far,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  with 
no  training  other  than  that  of  the  sand 
and  barrenness.  Magnificent — do  you 
hear? 

Very  often  I  take  this  fact  in  my 
hand  and  squeeze  it  hard  like  an 
orange,  to  get  the  sweet,  sweet  juice 
from  it.  I  squeeze  a  great  deal  of 


64   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

juice  from  it  every  day,  and  every  day 
the  juice  is  renewed,  like  the  vitals  of 
Prometheus.  And  so  I  squeeze  and 
squeeze,  and  drink  the  juice,  and  try  to 
be  satisfied. 

Yes,  you  may  gaze  long  and  curi 
ously  at  the  portrait  in  the  front  of  this 
book.  It  is  of  one  who  is  a  genius  of 
egotism  and  analysis,  a  genius  who  is 
awaiting  the  Devil's  coming, — a  genius, 
with  a  wondrous  liver  within. 

I  shall  tell  you  more  about  this  liver, 
I  think,  before  I  have  done. 


January  25. 

I  CAN  remember  a  time  long,  oh, 
very  long  ago.  That  is  the  time 
when  I  was  a  child.  It  is  ten  or  a 
dozen  years  ago. 

Or  is  it  a  thousand  years  ago? 

It  is  when  you  have  but  just  parted 
from  your  friend  that  he  seems  farthest 
from  you.  When  I  have  lived  several 
more  years  the  time  when  I  was  a  child 
will  not  seem  so  far  behind  me. 

Just  now  it  is  frightfully  far  away.  It 
is  so  far  away  that  I  can  see  it  plainly 
outlined  on  the  horizon. 

It  is  there  always  for  me  to  look  at. 
And  when  I  look  I  can  feel  the  tears 
deep  within  me — a  salt  ocean  of  tears 
that  roll  and  surge  and  swell  bitterly  in 
a  dull,  mad  anguish,  and  never  come  to 
the  surface. 

I  do  not  know  which  is  the  more 
weirdly  and  damnably  pathetic:  I  when 
I  was  a  child,  or  I  when  I  am  grown  to 
65 


66   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

a  woman,  young  and  all  alone.  I  weigh 
the  question  coldly  and  logically,  but 
my  logic  trembles  with  rage  and  grief 
and  unhappiness. 

When  I  was  a  child  I  lived  in  Canada 
and  in  Minnesota.  I  was  a  little  wild 
savage.  In  Minnesota  there  were 
swamps  where  I  used  to  wet  my  feet  in 
the  spring,  and  there  were  fields  of  tall 
grass  where  I  would  lie  flat  on  my 
stomach  in  company  with  lizards  and 
little  garter  snakes.  And  there  were 
poplar  leaves  that  turned  their  pale 
green  backs  upward  on  a  hot  after 
noon,  and  soon  there  would  be  terrific 
thunder  and  lightning  and  rain.  And 
there  were  robins  that  sang  at  dawn. 
These  things  stay  with  one  always. 
And  there  were  children  with  whom  I 
used  to  play  and  fight. 

I  was  tanned  and  sunburned,  and  I 
had  an  unkempt  appearance.  My  face 
was  very  dirty.  The  original  pattern 
of  my  frock  was  invariably  lost  in  lay 
ers  and  vistas  of  the  native  soil.  My 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       67 

hair  was  braided  or  else  it  flew  about,  a 
tangled  maze,  according  as  I  could  be 
caught  by  some  one  and  rubbed  and 
straightened  before  I  ran  away  for  the 
day.  My  hands  were  little  and  strong 
and  brown,  and  wrought  much  mis 
chief.  I  came  and  went  at  my  own 
pleasure.  I  ate  what  I  pleased;  I  went 
to  bed  all  in  my  own  good  time;  I 
tramped  wherever  my  stubborn  little 
feet  chose.  I  was  impudent;  I  was  con 
trary;  I  had  an  extremely  bad  temper; 
I  was  hard-hearted;  I  was  full  of  in 
fantile  malice.  Truly  I  was  a  vicious 
little  beast. 

I  was  a  little  piece  of  untrained  Na 
ture. 

And  I  am  unable  to  judge  which  is 
the  more  savagely  forlorn:  the  starved- 
hearted  child,  or  the  woman,  young  and 
all  alone. 

The  little  wild  stubborn  child  felt 
things  and  wanted  things.  She  did  not 
know  that  she  felt  things  and  wanted 
things. 


68   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 


I  feel  and  I  want  things  and  I 
know  it  with  burning  vividness. 

The  little  vicious  Mary  Mac  Lane 
suffered,  but  she  did  not  know  that  she 
suffered.  Yet  that  did  not  make  the 
suffering  less. 

And  she  reached  out  with  a  little 
sunburned  hand  to  touch  and  take 
something. 

But  the  sunburned  little  hand  re 
mained  empty.  There  was  nothing  for 
it.  No  one  had  anything  to  put  into  it. 

The  little  wild  creature  wanted  to  be 
loved;  she  wanted  something  to  put  in 
her  hungry  little  heart. 

But  no  one  had  anything  to  put  into 
a  hungry  little  heart. 

No  one  said  "dear." 

The  little  vicious  child  was  the  only 
Mac  Lane,  and  she  felt  somewhat  alone. 
But  there,  after  all,  were  the  lizards 
and  the  little  garter  snakes. 

The  wretched,  hardened  little  piece 
of  untrained  Nature  has  grown  and  de 
veloped  into  a  woman,  young  and  alone 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       69 

For  the  child  there  was  a  Nothingness, 
and  for  the  woman  there  is  a  great 
Nothingness. 

Perhaps  the  Devil  will  bring  me 
something  in  my  lonely  womanhood  to 
put  in  my  wooden  heart. 

But  the  time  when  I  was  a  child  will 
never  come  again.  It  is  gone — gone. 
I  may  live  through  some  long,  long 
years,  but  nothing  like  it  will  ever 
come.  For  there  is  nothing  like  it. 

It  is  a  life  by  itself.  It  has  naught  to 
do  with  philosophy,  or  with  genius,  or 
with  heights  and  depths,  or  with  the 
red  sunset  sky,  or  with  the  Devil. 

These  come  later. 

The  time  of  the  child  is  a  thing 
apart.  It  is  the  Planting  and  Seed 
time.  It  is  the  Beginning  of  things.  It 
decides  whether  there  shall  be  bright 
ness  or  bitterness  in  the  long  after- 
years. 

I  have  left  that  time  far  enough  be 
hind  me.  It  will  never  come  back. 
And  it  had  a  Nothingness  —  do  you 


7O   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

hear,  a  Nothingness!  Oh,  the  pity  of  it! 
the  pity  of  it! 

Do  you  know  why  it  is  that  I  look 
back  to  the  horizon  at  the  figure  of  an 
unkempt,  rough  child,  and  why  I  feel  a 
surging  torrent  of  tears  and  anguish 
and  despair? 

I  feel  more  than  that  indeed,  but  I 
have  no  words  to  tell  it. 

I  shall  have  to  miss  forever  some 
beautiful,  wonderful  things  because  of 
that  wretched,  lonely  childhood. 

There  will  always  be  a  lacking,  a 
wanting  —  some  dead  branches  that 
never  grew  leaves. 

It  is  not  deaths  and  murders  and 
plots  and  wars  that  make  life  tragedy. 

It  is  Nothing  that  makes  life  tragedy. 

It  is  day  after  day,  and  year  after 
year,  and  Nothing. 

It  is  a  sunburned  little  hand  reached 
out  and  Nothing  put  into  it. 


January  26* 

I  SIT  at  my  window  and  look  out 
upon  the  housetops  and  chimneys 
of  Butte.  As  I  look  I  have  a  weary, 
disgusted  feeling. 

People  are  abominable  creatures.  , 

Under  each  of  the  roofs  live  a  man 
and  woman  joined  together  by  that 
very  slender  thread,  the  marriage  cere 
mony — and  their  children,  the  result  of 
the  marriage  ceremony. 

How  many  of  them  love  each  other? 
Not  two  in  a  hundred,  I  warrant.  The 
marriage  ceremony  is  their  one  miser 
able,  petty,  paltry  excuse  for  living  to 
gether. 

This  marriage  rite,  it  appears,  is  often 
used  as  a  cloak  to  cover  a  world  of 
rather  shameful  things. 

How  virtuous  these  people  are,  to  be 

sure,  under    their   different  roof-trees. 

So  virtuous  are  they  indeed  that  they 

are  able  to  draw  themselves  up  in  the 

71 


72   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

pride  of  their  own  purity,  when  they 
happen  upon  some  corner  where  the 
marriage  ceremony  is  lacking.  So  vir 
tuous  are  they  that  the  men  can  afford 
to  find  amusement  and  diversion  in  the 
woes  of  the  corner  that  is  without  the 
marriage  rite;  and  the  women  may 
draw  away  their  skirts  in  shocked  hor 
ror  and  wonder  that  such  things  can 
be,  in  view  of  their  own  spotless  virtue. 

And  so  they  live  on  under  the  roofs, 
and  they  eat  and  work  and  sleep  and 
die;  and  the  children  grow  up  and  seek 
other  roofs,  and  call  upon  the  marriage 
ceremony  even  as  their  parents  before 
them — and  then  they  likewise  eat  and 
work  and  sleep  and  die;  and  so  on 
world  without  end. 

This  also  is  life — the  life  of  the  good, 
virtuous  Christians. 

I  think,  therefore,  that  I  should  pre 
fer  some  life  that  is  not  virtuous. 

I  shall  never  make  use  of  the  mar 
riage  ceremony.  I  hereby  register  a 
vow,  Devil,  to  that  effect. 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       73 

When  a  man  and  a  woman  love  one 
another  that  is  enough.  That  is  mar 
riage.  A  religious  rite  is  superfluous. 
And  if  the  man  and  woman  live  to 
gether  without  the  love,  no  ceremony  in 
the  world  can  make  it  marriage.  The 
woman  who  does  this  need  not  feel  the 
tiniest  bit  better  than  her  lowest  sister 
in  the  streets.  Is  she  not  indeed  a  step 
lower  since  she  pretends  to  be  what  she 
is  not  —  plays  the  virtuous  woman? 
While  the  other  unfortunate  pretends 
nothing.  She  wears  her  name  on  her 
sleeve. 

If  I  were  obliged  to  be  one  of  these  I 
would  rather  be  she  who  wears  her 
name  on  her  sleeve.  I  certainly  would. 
The  lesser  of  two  evils,  always. 

I  can  think  of  nothing  in  the  world 
like  the  utter  littleness,  the  paltriness, 
the  contemptibleness,  the  degradation, 
of  the  woman  who  is  tied  down  under  a 
roof  with  a  man  who  is  really  nothing 
to  her;  who  wears  the  man's  name,  who 
bears  the  man's  children — who  plays 


74   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

the  virtuous  woman.  There  are  too 
many  such  in  the  world  now. 

May  I  never,  I  say,  become  that  ab 
normal,  merciless  animal,  that  de 
formed  monstrosity — a  virtuous  woman. 

Anything,  Devil,  but  that. 

And  so,  as  I  look  out  over  the  roofs 
and  chimneys,  I  have  a  weary,  dis 
gusted  feeling. 


27. 

THIS  is  not  a  diary.  It  is  a  Por 
trayal.  It  is  my  inner  life  shown 
in  its  nakedness.  I  am  trying 
my  utmost  to  show  everything — to  re 
veal  every  petty  vanity  and  weakness, 
every  phase  of  feeling,  every  desire.  It 
is  a  remarkably  hard  thing  to  do,  I 
find,  to  probe  my  soul  to  its  depths,  to 
expose  its  shades  and  half-lights. 

Not  that  I  am  troubled  with  modesty 
or  shame.  Why  should  one  be 
ashamed  of  anything? 

But  there  are  elements  in  one's  men 
tal  equipment  so  vague,  so  opaque,  so 
undefined — how  is  one  to  grasp  them? 
I  have  analyzed  and  analyzed,  and  I 
have  gotten  down  to  some  extremely 
fine  points — yet  still  there  are  things 
upon  my  own  horizon  that  go  beyond 
me. 

There  are  feelings  that  rise  and  rush 
over  me  overwhelmingly.  I  am  help- 

75 


76   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

less,  crushed,  and  defeated,  before 
them.  It  is  as  if  they  were  written  on 
the  walls  of  my  soul-chamber  in  an  un 
known  language. 

My  soul  goes  blindly  seeking,  seek 
ing,  asking.  Nothing  answers.  I  cry 
out  after  some  unknown  Thing  with  all 
the  strength  of  my  being;  every  nerve 
and  fiber  in  my  young  woman's-body 
and  my  young  woman's-soul  reaches 
and  strains  in  anguished  unrest.  At 
times  as  I  hurry  over  my  sand  and  bar 
renness  all  my  life's  manifold  passions 
culminate  in  utter  rage  and  woe. 
Waves  of  intense,  hopeless  longing  rush 
over  me  and  envelop  me  round  and 
round.  My  heart,  my  soul,  my  mind  go 
wandering — wandering;  ploughing  their 
way  through  darkness  with  never  a  ray 
of  light;  groping  with  helpless  hands; 
asking,  longing,  wanting  things:  pur 
sued  by  a  Demon  of  Unrest. 

I  shall  go  mad — I  shall  go  mad,  I  say 
over  and  over  to  myself. 

But  no.      No  one   goes  mad.      The 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       77 

Devil  does  not  propose  to  release  any 
one  from  a  so  beautifully-wrought, 
artistic  damnation.  He  looks  to  it  that 
one's  senses  are  kept  fully  intact,  and 
he  fastens  to  them  with  steel  chains  the 
Demon  of  Unrest. 

It  hurts — oh,  it  tortures  me  in  the  days 
and  days!  But  when  the  Devil  brings  me 
my  Happiness  I  will  forgive  him  all  this. 

When  my  Happiness  is  given  me,  the 
Unrest  will  still  be  with  me,  I  doubt 
not,  but  the  Happiness  will  change  the 
tenor  of  it,  will  make  it  an  instrument 
of  joy,  will  clasp  hands  with  it  and  min 
gle  itself  with  it, — the  while  I,  with  my 
wooden  heart,  my  woman's-body,  my 
mind,  my  soul,  shall  be  in  transports. 
I  shall  be  rilled  with  pleasure  so  deep 
and  pain  so  intense  that  my  being's 
minutest  nerve  will  reel  and  stagger  in 
intoxication,  will  go  drunk  with  the 
fullness  of  Life. 

When  my  Happiness  is  given  me  I 
shall  live  centuries  in  the  hours.  And 
we  shall  all  grow  old  rapidly, — I  and 


78   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

my  wooden  heart,  and  my  woman's- 
body,  and  my  mind,  and  my  soul.  Sor 
row  may  age  one  in  some  degree.  But 
Happiness — the  real  Happiness — rolls 
countless  years  off  from  one's  finger 
tips  in  a  single  moment,  and  each  year 
leaves  its  impress. 

It  is  true  that  life  is  a  tragedy  to 
those  who  feel.  When  my  Happiness 
is  given  me  life  will  be  an  ineffable,  a 
nameless  thing. 

It  will  seethe  and  roar;  it  will  plunge 
and  whirl;  it  will  leap  and  shriek  in 
convulsion;  it  will  guiver  in  delicate 
fantasy;  it  will  writhe  and  twist;  it  will 
glitter  and  flash  and  shine;  it  will  sing 
gently;  it  will  shout  in  exquisite  excite 
ment;  it  will  vibrate  to  the  roots  like  a 
great  oak  in  a  storm;  it  will  dance;  it 
will  glide;  it  will  gallop;  it  will  rush;  it 
will  swell  and  surge;  it  will  fly;  it  will 
soar  high — high;  it  will  go  down  into 
depths  unexplored;  it  will  rage  and 
rave;  it  will  yell  in  utter  joy;  it  will 
melt;  it  will  blaze;  it  will  ride  trium- 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       79 

phant;  it  will  grovel  in  the  dust  of  en 
tire  pleasure;  it  will  sound  out  like  a 
terrific  blare  of  trumpets;  it  will  chime 
faintly,  faintly  like  the  remote  tinkling 
notes  of  a  harp;  it  will  sob  and  grieve 
and  weep;  it  will  revel  and  carouse;  it 
will  shrink;  it  will  go  in  pride;  it  will 
lie  prone  like  the  dead;  it  will  float 
bouyantly  on  air;  it  will  moan,  shiver, 
burst — oh,  it  will  reek  with  Love  and 
Light! 

The  words  of  the  English  language 
are  futile.  There  are  no  words  in  it, 
or  in  any  other,  to  express  an  idea  of 
that  thing  which  would  be  my  life  in  its 
Happiness. 

The  words  I  have  written  describe  it, 
it  is  true, — but  confusedly  and  inade 
quately. 

But  words  are  for  everyday  use. 

When  it  comes  my  turn  to  meet  face 
to  face  the  unspeakable  vision  of  the 
Happy  Life  I  shall  be  rendered  dumb. 

But  the  rains  of  my  feeling  will  come 
in  torrents! 


January  28. 

I  AM  an  artist  of  the  most  artistic, 
the  highest  type.  I  have  uncov 
ered  for  myself  the  art  that  lies  in 
obscure  shadows.  I  have  discovered 
the  art  of  the  day  of  small  things. 

And  that  surely  is  art  with  a  capital 
"A." 

I  have  acquired  the  art  of  Good  Eat 
ing.  Usually  it  is  in  the  gray  and 
elderly  forties  and  fifties  that  people 
cultivate  this  art — if  they  ever  do;  it  is 
indeed  a  rare  art. 

But  I  know  it  in  all  its  rare  exquisite- 
ness  at  the  young  slim  age  of  nineteen — 
which  is  one  more  mark  of  my  genius, 
do  you  see? 

The  art  of  Good  Eating  has  two 
essential  points:  one  must  eat  only 
when  one  is  hungry,  and  one  must  take 
small  bites. 

There  are  persons  who  eat  for  the 
sake  of  eating.  They  are  gourmands, 
80 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       8l 

and  partake  of  the  natures  of  the  pig 
and  the  buzzard.  There  are  persons 
who  take  bites  that  are  not  small. 
These  also  are  gourmands  and  partake 
of  the  natures  of  the  pig  and  the 
buzzard.  There  are  persons  who  can 
enjoy  nothing  in  the  way  of  eating 
except  a  luxurious,  well-appointed 
meal.  These,  it  is  safe  to  say,  have  not 
acquired  the  art  of  anything. 

But  I — I  have  acquired  the  art  of  eat 
ing  an  olive. 

Now  listen,  and  I  will  tell  you  the  art 
of  eating  an  olive: 

I  take  the  olive  in  my  fingers,  and  I 
contemplate  its  green  oval  richness.  It 
makes  me  think  at  once  of  the  land 
where  the  green  citron  grows — where 
the  cypress  and  myrtle  are  emblems;  of 
the  land  of  the  Sun  where  human 
beings  are  delightfully,  enchantingly 
wicked, — where  the  men  are  eager  and 
passionate,  and  the  women  gracefully 
developed  in  mind  and  in  body — and 
their  two  breasts  show  round  and  full 


82   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

and  delicately  veined  beneath  thin 
drapery. 

The  mere  sight  of  the  olive  conjures 
up  this  charming  picture  in  my  mind. 

I  set  my  teeth  and  my  tongue  upon 
the  olive,  and  bite  it.  It  is  bitter,  salt, 
delicious.  The  saliva  rushes  to  meet 
it,  and  my  tongue  is  a  happy  tongue. 
As  the  morsel  of  olive  rests  in  my 
mouth  and  is  crunched  and  squeezed 
lusciously  among  my  teeth,  a  quick, 
temporary  change  takes  place  in  my 
character.  I  think  of  some  adorable 
lines  of  the  Persian  poet:  "Give  thyself 
up  to  Joy,  for  thy  Grief  will  be  infinite. 
The  stars  shall  again  meet  together  at 
the  same  point  in  the  firmament,  but  of 
thy  body  shall  bricks  be  made  for  a 
palace  wall." 

"Oh,  dear,  sweet,  bitter  olive!"  I  say 
to  myself. 

The  bit  of  olive  slips  down  my  red 
gullet,  and  so  into  my  stomach.  There 
it  meets  with  a  joyous  welcome.  Gas 
tric  juices  leap  out  from  the  walls  and 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       83 

swathe  it  in  loving  embrace.  My 
stomach  is  fond  of  something  bitter 
and  salt.  It  lavishes  flattery  and  en 
dearment  galore  upon  the  olive.  It 
laughs  in  silent  delight.  It  feels  that 
the  day  it  has  long  waited  for  has 
come.  The  philosophy  of  my  stomach 
is  wholly  epicurean.  Let  it  receive  but 
a  tiny  bit  of  olive  and  it  will  reck  not 
of  the  morrow,  nor  of  the  past.  It 
lives,  voluptuously,  in  the  present.  It  is 
content.  It  is  in  paradise. 

I  bite  the  olive  again.  Again  the  bit 
ter  salt  crisp  ravishes  my  tongue.  "If 
this  be  vanity, — vanity  let  it  be."  The 
golden  moments  flit  by  and  I  heed 
them  not.  For  am  I  not  comfortably 
seated  and  eating  an  olive?  Go  hang 
yourself,  you  who  have  never  been 
comfortably  seated  and  eating  an  olive! 
My  character  evolves  farther  in  its 
change.  I  am  now  bent  on  reckless 
sensuality,  let  happen  what  will.  The 
fair  earth  seems  to  resolve  itself  into  a 
thing  oval  and  crisp  and  good  and 


84   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

green  and  deliciously  salt.  I  experi 
ence  a  feeling  of  fervent  gladness  that 
I  am  a  female  thing  living,  and  that 
I  have  a  tongue  and  some  teeth,  and 
salivary  glands. 

Also  this  bit  slips  down  my  red  gul 
let,  and  again  the  festive  Stomach  lifts 
up  a  silent  voice  in  psalms  and  rejoic 
ing.  It  is  now  an  absolute  monarchy 
with  the  green  olive  at  its  head.  The 
kisses  of  the  gastric  juice  become  hot 
and  sensual  and  convulsive  and  ec 
static.  "Avaunt,  pale,  shadowy  ghosts  of 
dyspepsia!"  says  my  Stomach.  "I  know 
you  not.  I  am  of  a  brilliant,  shining 
world.  I  dwell  in  Elysian  fields." 

Once  more  I  bite  the  olive.  Once 
more  is  my  tongue  electrified.  And 
the  third  stage  in  my  temporary  trans 
formation  takes  place.  I  am  now  a 
gross  but  supremely  contented  sensual 
ist.  An  exquisite  symphony  of  sensual 
ism  and  pleasure  seems  to  play  some 
where  within  me.  My  heart  purrs. 
My  brain  folds  its  arms  and  lounges.  I 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       85 

put  my  feet  up  on  the  seat  of  another 
chair.  The  entire  world  is  now  surely 
one  delicious  green  olive.  My  mind  is 
capable  of  conceiving  but  one  idea — 
that  of  a  green  olive.  Therefore  the 
green  olive  is  a  perfect  thing — abso 
lutely  a  perfect  thing. 

Disgust  and  disapproval  are  excited 
only  by  imperfections.  When  a  thing 
is  perfect,  no  matter  how  hard  one  may 
look  at  it,  one  can  see  only  itself — it 
self,  and  nothing  beyond. 

And  so  I  have  made  my  olive  and  my 
art  perfect. 

Well,  then,  this  third  bit  of  olive 
slides  down  the  willing  gullet  into  my 
stomach.  "And  then  my  heart  with 
pleasure  fills."  The  play  of  the  gastric 
secretions  is  now  marvelous.  It  is  the 
meeting  of  the  waters!  It  were  well, 
ah,  how  well,  if  the  hearts  of  the  world 
could  mingle  in  peace,  as  the  gastric 
juices  mingle  at  the  coming  of  a  green 
olive  into  my  stomach!  "Paradise! 
Paradise!"  says  my  Stomach. 


86   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

Every  drop  of  blood  in  my  passionate 
veins  is  resting.  Through  my  stomach — 
my  stomach,  do  you  hear — my  soul 
seems  to  feel  the  infinite.  The  minutes 
are  flying.  Shortly  it  will  be  over.  But 
just  now  I  am  safe.  I  am  entirely  satis 
fied.  I  want  nothing,  nothing. 

My  inner  quiet  is  infinite.  I  am  con 
scious  that  it  is  but  momentary,  and  it 
matters  not.  On  the  contrary,  the 
knowledge  of  this  fact  renders  the 
present  quiet — the  repose,  more  limit 
less,  more  intense. 

Where  now,  Devil,  is  your  damna 
tion?  If  this  be  damnation,  damnation 
let  it  be!  If  this  be  the  human  fall, 
then  how  good  it  is  to  be  fallen!  At 
this  moment  I  would  fain  my  fall  were 
like  yours,  Lucifer,  "never  to  hope 
again." 

And  so,  bite  by  bite,  the  olive  enters 
into  my  body  and  soul.  Each  bite 
brings  with  it  a  recurring  wave  of  sen 
sation  and  charm. 

No.     We  will  not  dispute   with  the 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       87 

brilliant  mind  that  declared  life  a 
tragedy  to  those  who  feel.  We  will  let 
that  stand.  However,  there  are  parts 
of  the  tragedy  that  are  not  tragic. 
There  are  parts  that  admit  of  a  turning 
aside. 

As  the  years  pass,  one  after  another, 
I  shall  continue  to  eat.  And  as  I  eat  I 
shall  have  my  quiet,  my  brief  period  of 
aberration. 

This  is  the  art  of  Eating. 

I  have  acquired  it  by  means  of  self- 
examination,  analyzing  —  analyzing  — 
analyzing.  Truly  my  genius  is  analyti 
cal.  And  it  enables  me  to  endure — if 
also  to  feel  bitterly — the  heavy,  heavy 
weight  of  life. 

What  a  worm  of  misery  I  should  be 
were  it  not  for  these  bursts  of  philoso 
phy,  these  turnings  aside! 

If  it  please  the  Devil,  one  day  I  may 
have  Happiness.  That  will  be  all-suffi 
cient.  I  shall  then  analyze  no  more.  I 
shall  be  a  different  being. 

But  meanwhile  I  shall  eat. 


88   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

When  the  last  of  the  olive  vanishes 
into  the  stomach,  when  it  is  there  re 
duced  to  animated  chyme,  when  I  play 
with  the  olive-seed  in  my  fingers,  when 
I  lean  back  in  my  chair  and  straighten 
out  my  spinal  column, — oh,  then  do  you 
not  envy  me,  you  fine,  brave  world,  who 
are  not  a  philosopher,  who  have  not  dis 
covered  the  art  of  the  small  things, 
who  have  not  conscious  chyme  in  your 
stomach,  who  have  not  acquired  the  art 
of  Good  Eating! 


January  29. 

AS  I  read  over  now  and  then  what 
I  have  written  of  my  Portrayal  I 
have  alternate  periods  of   hope 
and  despair.     At  times   I   think  I   am 
succeeding  admirably — and  again,  what 
I  have  written  compared  to  what  I  have 
felt  seems  vapid  and  tame.     Who  has 
not  felt  the  futility  of  words  when  one 
would  express  feelings? 

I  take  this  hope  and  despair  as  an 
other  mark  of  genius.     Genius,  apart 
from    natural    sensitiveness,   is    prone 
equally  to  unreasoning  joy  and  to  bit 
terest  morbidness. 

I  am  more  than  fond  of  writing, 
though  I  have  hours  when  I  can  not 
write  any  more  than  I  could  paint  a 
picture,  or  play  Wagner  as  it  should  be 
played. 

I   think   my  style   of  writing  has   a 
wonderful  intensity  in  it,  and  it  is  ad 
mirably  suited  to  the  creature  it  por- 
89 


9O   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

trays.  What  sort  of  Portrayal  of 
myself  would  I  produce  if  I  wrote  with 
the  long,  elaborate  periods  of  Henry 
James,  or  with  the  pleasant,  ladylike 
phrasing  of  Howells?  It  would  be 
rather  like  a  little  tin  phonograph 
trolling  out  flowery  poetry  at  breakneck 
speed,  or  like  a  deep-toned  church 
organ  pouring  forth  "Goo-Goo  Eyes" 
with  ponderous  feeling. 

When  I  read  a  book  I  study  it  care 
fully  to  find  whether  the  author  knoivs 
things,  and  whether  I  could,  with  the 
same  subject,  write  a  better  one  myself. 

The  latter  question  I  usually  decide 
in  the  affirmative. 

The  highest  thing  one  can  do  in  liter 
ature  is  to  succeed  in  saying  that  thing 
which  one  meant  to  say.  There  is 
nothing  better  than  that — to  make  the 
world  see  your  thoughts  as  you  see 
them.  Eugene  Field  and  Edgar  Allan 
Poe  and  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  and 
Charles  Dickens,  among  others,  have 
succeeded  in  doing  this.  They  impress 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       QI 

the  world  with  a  sense  of  their  courage 
and  realness. 

There  are  people  who  have  written 
books  which  did  not  impress  the  world 
in  this  way,  but  which  nevertheless 
came  out  of  the  feeling  and  fullness  of 
zealous  hearts.  Always  I  think  of  that 
pathetic,  artless  little  old  -  fashioned 
thing,  "Jane  Eyre,"  as  a  picture  shown 
to  a  world  seeing  with  distorted  vision. 
Charlotte  Bronte  meant  one  thing  when 
she  wrote  the  book,  and  the  world  after 
a  time  suddenly  understood  a  quite 
different  thing,  and  heaped  praise  and 
applause  upon  her  therefor.  When  I 
read  the  book  I  was  not  quite  able  to 
see  just  what  the  message  was,  that  the 
Bronte  intended  to  send  out.  But  I 
saw  that  there  was  a  message — of  brav 
ery,  perhaps,  or  of  that  good  which  may 
come  out  of  Nazareth.  But  the  world 
that  praised  and  applauded  and  gave 
her  money  seems  totally  to  have  missed 
it. 

It  takes  centuries^  of  tears  and  piety 


Q2   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

and  mourning  to  move  this  world  a 
tiny  bit. 

But  still  it  will  give  you  praise  and 
applause  and  money  if  you  will  prosti 
tute  your  sensibilities  and  emotions  for 
the  gratification  of  it. 

I  have  no  message  to  hide  in  a  book 
and  send  out.  I  am  writing  a  Por 
trayal. 

But  a  Portrayal  is  also  a  thing  that 
may  be  misunderstood. 


•January  30. 

AN  IDLE  brain  is  the  Devil's  work 
shop,  they  say.  It  is  an  absurdly 
incongruous  statement.  If  the 
Devil  is  at  work  in  a  brain  it  certainly 
is  not  idle.  And  when  one  considers 
how  brilliant  a  personage  the  Devil  is, 
and  what  very  fine  work  he  turns  out,  it 
becomes  an  open  question  whether  he 
would  have  the  slightest  use  for  most 
of  the  idle  brains  that  cumber  the 
earth.  But,  after  all,  the  Devil  is  so 
clever  that  he  could  produce  unexcelled 
workmanship  with  even  the  poorest 
tools. 

My  brain  is  one  kind  of  devil's  work 
shop,  and  it  is  as  incessantly  hard- 
worked  and  always-busy  a  one  as  you 
could  imagine. 

It  is  a  devil's  workshop,  indeed,  only 

I  do  the  work  myself.     But  there  is  a 

mental  telegraphy  between  the  Devil 

and  me,  which  accounts  for  the  fact  that 

93 


94   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

many  of  my  ideas  are  so  wonderfully 
groomed  and  perfumed  and  colored.  I 
take  no  credit  to  myself  for  this, 
though,  as  I  say,  I  do  the  work  myself. 

I  try  always  to  give  the  Devil  his 
due — and  particularly  in  this  Portrayal. 

There  are  very  few  who  give  the 
Devil  his  due  in  this  world  of  hypo 
crites. 

I  never  think  of  the  Devil  as  that 
atrocious  creature  in  red  tights,  with 
cloven  hoofs  and  a  tail  and  a  two-tined 
fork.  I  think  of  him  rather  as  an  ex 
tremely  fascinating,  strong,  steel-willed 
person  in  conventional  clothes — a  man 
with  whom  to  fall  completely,  madly  in 
love.  I  rather  think,  I  believe,  that  he 
is  incarnate  at  times.  Why  not? 

Periodically  I  fall  completely,  madly 
in  love  with  the  Devil.  He  is  so  fasci 
nating,  so  strong — so  strong,  exactly 
the  sort  of  man  whom  my  wooden 
heart  awaits.  I  would  like  to  throw 
myself  at  his  head.  I  would  make  him 
a  dear  little  wife.  He  would  love  me — 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       §5 

he  would  love  me.  I  would  be  in  rap 
tures.  And  I  would  love  him,  oh, 
madly,  madly! 

"What  would  you  have  me  do,  little 
Mac  Lane?"  the  Devil  would  say. 

"I  would  have  you  conquer  me,  crush 
me,  know  me,"  I  would  answer. 

"What  shall  I  say  to  you?"  the  Devil 
would  ask. 

"Say  to  me,  'I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I 
love  you/  in  your  strong,  steel,  fascinat 
ing  voice.  Say  it  to  me  often,  always — 
a  million  times." 

"What  would  you  have  me  do,  little 
Mac  Lane?"  he  would  say  again. 

I  would  answer:  "Hurt  me,  burn  me, 
consume  me  with  hot  love,  shake  me 
violently,  embrace  me  hard,  hard  in 
your  strong,  steel  arms,  kiss  me  with 
wonderful  burning  kisses — press  your 
lips  to  mine  with  passion,  and  your 
soul  and  mine  would  meet  then  in  an 
anguish  of  joy  for  me!" 

"How  shall  I  treat  you,  little  Mac 
Lane?" 


96   THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

"Treat  me  cruelly,  brutally." 

"How  long  shall  I  stay  with  you?" 

"Through  the  life  everlasting — it  will 
be  as  one  day;  or  for  one  day — it  will 
be  as  the  life  everlasting." 

"And  what  kind  of  children  will  you 
bear  me,  little  Mac  Lane?"  he  would 
say. 

"I  will  bear  wonderful,  beautiful  chil 
dren — with  great  pain." 

"But  you  hate  pain,"  the  Devil  will 
say,  "and  when  you  are  in  your  pain 
you  will  hate  me." 

"But  no,"  I  will  answer,  "pain  that 
comes  of  you  whom  I  love  will  be  in 
effable  exaltation." 

"And  how  will  you  treat  me,  little 
Mac  Lane?" 

"I  will  cast  myself  at  your  feet;  or  I 
will  minister  to  you  with  divine  tender 
ness;  or  I  will  charm  you  with  fantastic 
deviltry;  when  you  weep,  I  will  melt 
into  tears;  when  you  rejoice,  I  will  go 
wild  with  delight;  when  you  go  deaf 
I  will  stop  my  ears;  when  you  go  blind 


THE    STORY   OF   MARY    MAC  LANE       97 

I  will  put  out  my  eyes;  when  you  go 
lame  I  will  cut  off  my  legs.  Oh,  I  will 
be  divinely  dear,  unutterably  sweet!" 

"Indeed  you  are  rarely  sweet,"  the 
Devil  will  say.  And  I  will  be  in  trans 
ports. 

Oh,  Devil,  Devil,  Devil! 

Oh,  misery,  misery  of  Nothingness! 

The  days  are  long — long  and  very 
weary  as  I  await  the  Devil's  coming. 


January  31. 

TO-DAY  as  I  walked  out  I  was 
impressed  deeply  with  the  won 
derful  beautifulness  of  Nature 
even  in  her  barrenness.  The  far-dis 
tant  mountains  had  that  high,  pure, 
transparent  look,  and  the  nearer  ones 
were  transformed  completely  with  a 
wistful,  beseeching  attitude  that  re 
minded  me  of  my  life.  It  was  late  in 
the  afternoon.  As  the  sun  lowered, 
the  pure  lavender  of  the  far-away  hills 
was  tinted  with  faint-rose,  and  the  gray 
of  the  nearer  ones  with  sun-color.  And 
the  sand— my  sand  and  barrenness — 
almost  flushed  consciously  in  its  wide, 
mysterious  magnitude.  In  the  sky 
there  was  a  white  cloud.  The  sky  was 
blue — blue  almost  as  when  I  was  a 
child.  The  air  was  very  gentle.  The 
earth  seemed  softened.  There  was  an 
indefinite,  caressing  something  over  all 
that  went  into  my  soul  and  stirred  it, 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       QQ 

and  hurt  it.  There  was  that  in  the  air 
which  is  there  when  something  is  going 
to  happen.  Only  nothing  ever  hap 
pens.  It  is  rare,  I  thought,  that  my 
sand  and  barrenness  looks  like  this.  I 
crouched  on  the  ground,  and  the  won 
drous  calm  and  beauty  of  the  natural 
things  awed  and  moved  me  with 
strange,  still  emotions. 

I  felt,  and  gazed  about  me,  and  felt 
again.  And  everything  was  very  still. 

Presently  my  eyes  filled  quietly  with 
tears. 

I  bent  my  head  into  the  breast  of  a 
great  gray  rock.  Oh,  my  soul,  my  soul, 
I  said  over  and  over,  not  with  passion. 
It  is  so  divine — the  earth  is  so  beautiful, 
so  untainted — and  I,  what  am  I?  It  was 
so  beautiful  that  now  as  I  write,  and  it 
comes  over  me  again,  I  can  not  restrain 
the  tears. 

Tears  are  not  common. 

I  felt  my  wooden  heart,  my  soul, 
quivering  and  sobbing  with  their  un 
known  wanting.  This  is  my  soul's 


IOO    THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

awakening.  Ah,  the  pain  of  my  soul's 
awakening!  Is  there  nothing,  nothing 
to  help  this  pain?  I  am  so  lonely,  so 
lonely — Fannie  Corbin,  my  one  friend, 
my  dearly-loved  anemone  lady,  I  want 
you  so  much — why  aren't  you  here!  I 
want  to  feel  your  hand  with  mine  as  I 
felt  it  sometimes  before  you  went 
away.  You  are  the  only  one  among  a 
worldful  of  people  to  care  a  little — and 
I  love  you  with  all  the  strength  and 
worship  I  can  give  to  the  things  that 
are  beautiful  and  true.  You  are  the 
only  one,  the  only  one — and  my  soul  is 
full  of  pain,  and  I  am  sitting  alone  on 
the  ground,  and  my  head  lies  on  a 
rock's  breast. — 

Strange,  sweet  passions  stirred  and 
waked  somewhere  deep  within  me  as  I 
sat  shivering  on  the  ground.  And  I 
felt  them  singing  far  away,  as  if  their 
faint  voices  came  out  of  that  limitless 
deep,  deep  blue  above  me;  and  it  was 
like  a  choir  of  spirit-voices,  and  they 
sang  of  love  and  of  light  and  of  dear 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     IOI 

tender  dreams,  and  of  my  soul's  awak 
ening.  Why  is  this — and  what  is  it  that 
is  hurting  so?  Is  it  because  I  am 
young,  or  is  it  because  I  am  alone,  or 
because  I  am  a  woman? 

Oh,  it  is  a  hard  and  bitter  thing  to  be 
a  woman!  And  why — why?  Is  woman 
so  foul  a  creature  that  she  must  needs 
be  purged  by  this  infinite  pain? 

The  choir  of  faint,  sweet  voices 
comes  to  me  incessantly  out  of  the 
blue.  My  wooden  heart  and  my  soul 
are  listening  to  them  intently.  The 
voices  are  trying  hard  to  tell  me,  to 
help  me,  but  I  can  not  understand.  I 
know  only  that  it  is  about  pure,  exalted 
things,  and  about  the  all-abiding  love 
that  is  somewhere;  and  it  is  about  the 
earth-love,  and  about  Truth, — but  I  can 
not  understand.  And  the  voices  sing 
of  me  the  child — a  song  of  the  unloved, 
starved  little  being;  and  a  song  of  the 
unloved,  half-grown  creature;  and  a 
song  of  me,  a  woman  and  all  alone — 
awaiting  the  Devil's  coming. 


102     THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

Oh,  my  soul — my  soul! 

A  female  snake  is  born  out  of  its 
mother's  white  egg,  and  lives  awhile 
in  content  among  weeds  and  grass,  and 
dies. 

A  female  dog  lives  some  years,  and 
has  bones  thrown  at  her,  and  sometimes 
she  receives  a  kick  or  a  blow,  and  a 
dog-house  to  sleep  in,  and  dies. 

A  female  bird  has  a  nest,  and  worms 
to  eat,  and  goes  south  in  the  winter, 
and  presently  she  dies. 

A  female  toad  has  a  swamp  or  a  gar 
den,  some  bugs  and  flies,  contentment — 
and  then  she  dies. 

And  each  of  these  has  a  male  thing 
with  her  for  a  time,  and  soon  there 
are  little  snakes  or  little  dogs  for  her  to 
love  as  much  as  it  is  given  her  to  love — 
she  can  do  no  more. 

And  they  are  fortunate  with  their 
little  snakes  and  little  dogs. 

A  female  human  being  is  born  out  of 
her  mother's  fair  body,  branded  with  a 
strange,  plague-tainted  name,  and  let 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     103 

go;  and  lives  awhile,  and  dies.  But 
before  she  dies  she  awakes.  There  is 
a  pain  that  goes  with  it. 

And  the  male  thing  that  is  with  her 
for  a  time  is  unlike  a  snake  or  a  dog. 
It  is  more  like  a  man,  and  there  is  an 
other  pain  for  this. 

And  when  a  little  human  being 
comes  with  a  soul  of  its  own  there  must 
be  another  awakening,  for  she  has  then 
reached  the  best  and  highest  state  that 
any  human  being  can  reach,  though  she 
is  a  female  human  being,  and  plague- 
tainted.  And  here  also  there  is  heavy 
soul-pain. 

The  name — the  plague-tainted  name 
branded  upon  her — means  woman. 

I  lifted  my  head  from  the  breast  of 
the  gray  rock.  The  tears  Jiad  been 
falling,  falling.  Tears  are  so  strange! 
Tears  from  the  dried-up  fountain  of 
nineteen  years  are  like  drops  of  water 
wrung  out  of  stone.  Suddenly  I  got  up 
from  the  ground  and  ran  quickly  over 
the  sand  for  several  minutes.  I  did  not 


IO4    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

dare  look  again  at  the  hilltops  and  the 
deep  blue,  nor  listen  again  to  the 
voices. 

Oh,  with  it  all,  I  am  a  coward!  I 
shrink  and  cringe  before  the  pain  of  the 
dazzling  lights.  Yet  I  am  waiting — 
longing  for  the  most  dazzling  light  of 
all:  the  coming  of  the  Devil. 


3f  ebruars  l. 

OH,   THE    wretched  bitter  loneli 
ness  of  me! 

In  all  the  deep  darkness,  and 
the  silence,  there  is  never  a  faint  human 
light,  never  a  voice! 

How  can  I  bear  it — how  can  I  bear  it! 


105 


jfebruarp  2. 

I  HAVE  been  looking  over  the  con 
fessions  of  the  Bashkirtseff.     They 
are   indeed    rather   like    my    Por 
trayal,  but  they  are  not  so  interesting, 
nor  so  intense.     I  have  a  stronger  indi 
viduality     than      Marie     Bashkirtseff, 
though    her   mind   was   probably   in    a 
higher  state  of  development  than  mine, 
even  when  she  was  younger  than  I. 

Most  of  her  emotions  are  vacillating 
and  inconsistent.  She  worships  a  God 
one  day  and  blasphemes  him  the  next. 
She  never  loves  her  God.  And  why, 
then,  does  she  have  a  God?  Why  does 
she  not  abandon  him  altogether?  He 
seems  to  be  of  no  use  to  her — except 
as  a  convenient  thing  on  which  to 
fasten  the  blame  for  her  misfortunes. — 
And,  after  all,  that  is  something  very 
useful  indeed.  —  And  she  loves  the 
people  about  her  one  day,  and  the  next 
day  she  hates  them. 

106 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     IO7 

But  in  her  great  passion — her  ambi 
tion,  Marie  Bashkirtseff  was  beautifully 
consistent.  And  what  terrific  storms  of 
woe  and  despair  must  have  enveloped 
her  when  she  knew  that  within  a  cer 
tain  period  she  would  be  dead — re 
moved  from  the  world,  and  her  work 
left  undone!  The  time  kept  creeping 
nearer — she  must  have  tasted. the  bit 
terness  of  death  indeed.  She  was  sure 
of  success,  sure  that  her  high-strained 
ambition.would  be  gratified  to_its  last 
vestige — and  then,  to  die!  It  was  cer 
tainly  hard  lines  for  the  little  Bashkirt 
seff. 

My  own  despair  is  of  an  opposite 
nature. 

There  is  one  thing  in  the  world  that 
is  more  bitter  than  death — and  that  is 
life. 

Suppose  that  I  learned  I  was  to  die 
on  the  twenty-seventh  of  June,  1903, 
for  instance.  It  would  give  me  a  soft 
warm  wave  of  pleasure,  I  think.  I 
might  be  in  the  depths  of  woe  at  the 


IO8    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

time;  my  despair  might  be  the  despair 
of  despair;  my  misery  utterly  unceas 
ing, — and  I  could  say,  Never  mind,  on 
the  twenty-seventh  of  June,  1903,  all 
will  be  over — dull  misery,  rage,  Noth 
ingness,  obscurity,  the  unknown  long 
ing,  every  desire  of  my  soul,  all  the 
pain — ended  inevitably,  completely  on 
the  twenty-seventh  of  June,  1903.  I 
might  come  upon  a  new  pain,  but  this, 
my  long  old  torture,  would  cease. 

You  may  say  that  I  might  end  my 
life  on  that  day,  that  I  might  do  so 
now.  I  certainly  shall  if  the  pain  be 
comes  greater  than  I  can  bear — for 
what  else  is  there  to  do?  But  I  shall 
be  far  from  satisfied  in  doing  so.  What 
if  I  were  to  end  everything  now — when 
perhaps  the  Devil  may  be  coming  to 
me  in  two  years'  time  with  Happiness? 

Upon  dying  it  might  be  that  I  should 
go  to  some  wondrous  fair  country 
where  there  would  be  trees  and  run 
ning  water,  and  a  resting-place.  Well — 
oh,  well!  But  I  want  the  earthly  Hap- 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     IOQ 

piness.  I  am  not  high-minded  and 
spiritual.  I  am  earthly,  human  — 
sensitive,  sensuous,  sensual,  and,  ah, 
dear,  my  soul  wants  its  earthly  Happi 
ness! 

I  can  not  bring  myself  to  the  point  of 
suicide  while  there  is  a  possibility  of 
Happiness  remaining.  But  if  I  knew 
that  irrevocable,  inevitable  death 
awaited  me  on  June  twenty-seventh, 
1903,  I  should  be  satisfied.  My  Happi 
ness  might  come  before  that  time,  or  it 
might  not.  I  should  be  satisfied.  I 
should  know  that  my  life  was  out  of 
my  hands.  I  should  know,  above  all, 
that  my  long,  long,  old,  old  pain  of 
loneliness  would  stop,  June  twenty- 
seventh,  1903. 

I  shall  die  naturally  some  day — prob 
ably  after  I  have  grown  old  and  sour. 
If  I  have  had  my  Happiness  for  a  year 
or  a  day,  well  and  good.  I  shall  be  con 
tent  to  grow  as  old  and  as  sour  as  the 
Devil  wills.  But  having  had  no  Hap 
piness — if  I  find  myself  growing  old  and 


IIO    THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

still  no  Happiness — oh,  then  I  vow  I 
will  not  live  another  hour,  even  if  dying 
were  rushing  headlong  to  damnation! 

I  am,  do  you  see,  a  philosopher  and 
a  coward — with  the  philosophy  of  cow 
ardice.  I  squeeze  juice  also  from  this 
fact  sometimes — but  the  juice  is  not 
sweet  juice. 

The  Devil — the  fascinating  man- 
devil — it  may  be,  is  coming,  coming, 
coming. 

And  meanwhile  I  go  on  and  on,  in 
the  midst  of  sand  and  barrenness. 


jfebruars  3. 

THE  town  of  Butte  presents  a  won 
derful  field  to  a  student  of 
humanity  and  human  nature. 
There  are  not  a  great  many  people — 
seventy  thousand  perhaps — but  those 
seventy  thousand  are  in  their  way  un 
paralleled.  For  mixture,  for  miscel 
lany — variedness,  Bohemianism — where 
is  Butte's  rival? 

The  population  is  not  only  of  all  na 
tionalities  and  stations,  but  the  nation 
alities  and  stations  mix  and  mingle 
promiscuously  with  each  other,  and  are 
partly  concealed  and  partly  revealed  in 
the  mazes  of  a  veneer  that  belongs 
neither  to  nation  nor  to  station,  but  to 
Butte. 

The  nationalities  are  many,  it  is  true, 
but  Irish  and  Cornish  predominate. 
My  acquaintance  extends  widely  among 
the  inhabitants  of  Butte.  Sometimes 
when  I  feel  in  the  mood  for  it  I  spend 


112    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

an  afternoon  in  visiting  about  among 
divers  curious  people. 

At  some  Fourth  of  July  demonstra 
tion,  or  on  a  Miners'  Union  day,  the 
heterogeneous  herd  turns  out — and  I 
turn  out,  with  the  herd  and  of  it,  and 
meditate  and  look  on.  There  are 
Irishmen — Kelleys,  Caseys,  Calahans, 
staggering  under  the  weight  of  much 
whiskey,  shouting  out  their  green-isle 
maxims;  there  is  the  festive  Cornish- 
man,  ogling  and  leering,  greeting  his 
fellow  -  countrymen  with  alcoholic 
heartiness,  and  gazing  after  every  femi 
nine  creature  with  lustful  eyes;  there 
are  Irish  women  swearing  genially  at 
each  other  in  shrill  pleasantry,  and  five 
or  six  loudly-vociferous  children  for 
each;  there  are  round-faced  Cornish 
women  likewise,  each  with  her  train  of 
children;  there  are  suave,  sleek  sporting 
men  just  out  of  the  bath-tub  ;  insig 
nificant  lawyers,  dentists,  messen- 
gerboys;  "plungers"  without  number; 
greasy  Italians  from  Meaderville; 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     1 13 

greasier  French  people  from  the  Boule- 
varde  Addition;  ancient  miners — each 
of  whom  was  the  first  to  stake  a  claim 
in  Butte;  starved-looking  Chinamen 
here  and  there;  a  contingent  of  Finns 
and  Swedes  and  Germans;  musty, 
stuffy  old  Jew  pawn-brokers  who  have 
crawled  out  of  their  holes  for  a  brief 
recreation;  dirt-encrusted  Indians  and 
squaws  in  dirty,  gay  blankets,  from 
their  flea-haunted  camp  below  the 
town;  "box-rustlers" — who  are  as  com 
mon  in  Butte  as  bar-maids  in  Ireland; 
swell,  flashy-looking  Africans;  respect 
able  women  with  white  aprons  tied 
around  their  waists  and  sailor-hats  on 
their  heads,  who  have  left  the  children 
at  home  and  stepped  out  to  see  what 
was  going  on;  innumerable  stray 
youngsters  from  the  dark  haunts  of 
Dublin  Gulch;  heavy  restaurant-keep 
ers  with  toothpicks  in  their  mouths;  a 
vast  army  of  dry-goods  clerks — the 
"paper-collared"  gentry;  miners  of 
every  description;  representatives  from 


114    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

Dog  Town,  Chicken  Flats,  Busterville, 
Butchertown,  and  Seldom  Seen — sub 
urbs  of  Butte;  pale,  thin  individuals 
who  sing  and  dance  in  beer-halls;  smart 
society  people  in  high  traps  and  tally- 
hos;  impossible  women  —  so-called 
(though  in  Butte  no  one  is  more  pos 
sible),  in  vast  hats  and  extremely  plaid 
stockings;  persons  who  take  things 
seriously  and  play  the  races  for  a 
living;  "beer-jerkers";  "biscuit-shoot 
ers";  soft-voiced  Mexicans  and  Ara 
bians; — the  dregs,  the  elite,  the  humbly 
respectable,  the  off  -  scouring  —  all 
thrown  together,  and  shaken  up,  and 
mixed  well. 

One  may  notice  many  odd  bits  of 
irony  as  one  walks  among  these.  One 
may  notice  that  the  Irishmen  are  sin 
gularly  carefree  and  strong  and  com 
fortable — and  so  jolly!  while  the  Irish 
women  are  frumpish  and  careworn  and 
borne  earthward  with  children.  The 
Cornishman  who  has  consumed  the 
greatest  amount  of  whiskey  is  the  most 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     115 

agreeable,  and  less  and  less  inclined  to 
leer  and  ogle.  The  Cornish  woman 
whose  profanity  is  the  shrillest  and 
most  genial  and  voluble,  is  she  whose 
life  seems  the  most  weighted  and  down 
trodden.  The  young  women  whose 
bodies  are  encased  in  the  tightest  and 
stiffest  corsets  are  in  the  most  wildly 
hilarious  spirits  of  all.  The  filthy  little 
Irish  youngsters  from  Dublin  Gulch  are 
much  brighter  and  more  clever  in  every 
way  than  the  ordinary  American  chil 
dren  who  are  less  filthy.  A  delicate 
aroma  of  cocktails  and  whiskey-and- 
soda  hangs  over  even  the  four-in-hands 
and  automobiles  of  the  upper  crust. 
Gamblers,  newsboys,  and  Chinamen  are 
the  most  chivalrously  courteous  among 
them.  And  the  modest  -  looking 
"plunger"  who  has  drunk  the  greatest 
number  of  high-balls  is  the  most 
gravely,  quietly  polite  of  all.  The 
rolling,  rollicking,  musical  profanity  of 
the  "ould  sod" — Bantry  Bay,  Donegal, 
Tyrone,  Tipperary — falls  much  less 


Il6    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

limpidly  from  the  cigaretted  lips  of  the 
ten-year-old  lad  than  from  those  of  his 
mother,  who  taught  it  to  him.  One 
may  notice  that  the  husband  and  wife 
who  smile  the  sweetest  at  each  other  in 
the  sight  of  the  multitudes  are  they 
whose  countenances  bear  various  scars 
and  scratches  commemorating  late 
evening  orgies  at  home;  that  the  pecu 
liar  solid,  block-shaped  appearance  of 
some  of  the  miners'  wives  is  due  quite 
as  much  to  the  quantity  of  beer  they 
drink  as  to  their  annual  maternity;  that 
the  one  grand  ruling  passion  of  some 
men's  lives  is  curiosity;  —  that  the 
entire  herd  is  warped,  distorted,  bar 
ren,  having  lived  its  life  in  smoke-cured 
Butte. 

A  single  street  in  Butte  contains 
people  in  nearly  every  walk  of  life — liv 
ing  side  by  side  resignedly,  if  not  in 
peace. 

In  a  row  of  five  or  six  houses  there 
will  be  living  miners  and  their  fam 
ilies,  the  children  of  which  prevent  life 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     117 

from  stagnating  in  the  street  while 
their  mothers  talk  to  each  other — with 
the  inevitable  profanity — over  the  back- 
fences.  On  the  corner  above  there  will 
be  a  mysterious  widow  with  one  child, 
who  has  suddenly  alighted  upon  the 
neighborhood,  stealthily  in  the  night, 
and  is  to  be  seen  at  rare  intervals 
emerging  from  her  door — the  target 
for  dozens  of  pairs  of  eager  eyes  and 
half  as  many  eager  tongues.  And  when 
the  mysterious  widow,  with  her  one 
child,  disappears  some  night  as  sud 
denly  and  as  stealthily  as  she  appeared, 
an  outburst  of  highly-colored  rumors  is 
tossed  with  astonishing  glibness  over 
the  various  back-fences — all  relating  to 
the  mysterious  widow's  shady  ante 
cedents  and  past  history,  to  those  of  her 
child,  and  to  the  cause  of  her  sudden 
departure, — no  two  of  which  rumors 
agree  in  any  particular.  Across  on  the 
opposite  corner  there  will  be  a  com 
pany  of  strange  people  who  also  de 
scended  suddenly,  and  upon  whom  the 


Il8    THE    STORY    OF   MARY   MAC  LANE 

eyes  of  the  entire  block  are  turned  with 
absorbing  interest.  They  consist  of 
half-a-dozen  men  and  women  seemingly 
bound  together  only  by  ties  of  con 
viviality.  The  house  is  kept  closely- 
blinded  and  quiet  all  day,  only  to  burst 
forth  in  a  blaze  of  revel  in  the  evening, 
which  revel  lasts  all  night.  This  goes 
on  until  some  momentous  night,  at  the 
request  of  certain  proper  ones,  a  police 
officer  glides  quietly  into  the  midst  of 
a  scene  of  unusual  gaiety — and  the 
festive  company  melts  into  oblivion, 
never  to  return.  They  also  are  then 
discussed  with  rapturous  relish  and  in 
tones  properly  lowered,  over  the  back- 
fences.  Farther  down  the  street  there 
will  live  an  interesting  being  of  femi 
nine  persuasion  who  has  had  five 
divorces  and  is  in  course  of  obtaining 
another.  These  .divorces,  the  causes 
therefor,  the  justice  thereof,  and  the 
future  prospects  of  the  multi-grass 
widow,  are  gone  over,  in  all  their  bear 
ings,  by  the  indefatigable  tongues. 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     IIQ 

Every  incident  in  the  history  of  the 
street  is  put  through  a  course  of 
sprouts  by  these  same  tireless  mem 
bers.  The  Jewish  family  that  lives  in 
the  poorest  house  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  that  is  said  to  count  its  money  by 
the  hundred  thousands;  the  aristocratic 
family  with  the  Irish-point  curtains  in 
the  windows — that  lives  on  the  county; 
the  family  whose  husband  and  father 
gains  for  it  a  comfortable  livelihood — 
forging  checks;  the  miner's  family 
whose  wife  and  mother  wastes  its  sub 
stance  in  diamonds  and  sealskin  coats 
and  other  riotous  living;  the  family  in 
extremely  straitened  circumstances  into 
which  new  babies  arrive  in  great  and 
distressing  numbers;  the  strange  lady 
with  an  apoplectic  complexion  and  a 
wonderfully  foul  and  violent  flow  of 
invective — all  are  discussed  over  and 
over  and  over  again.  No  one  is 
omitted. 

And    so   this  is    Butte,   the  promis 
cuous — the  Bohemian.      And  all  these 


I2O    THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

are  tne  Devil's  playthings.  They 
amuse  him,  doubtless. 

Butte  is  a  place  of  sand  and  barren 
ness. 

The  souls  of  these  people  are  dumb. 


ff ebruarj?  4. 

ALWAYS  I  wonder,  when  I  die 
will  there  be  any  one  to  remem 
ber  me  with  love? 

I  know  I  am  not  lovable. 

That  I  want  it  so  much  only  makes 
me  less  lovable,  it  seems.  But — who 
knows? — it  may  be  there  will  be  some 
one. 

My  anemone  lady  does  not  love  me. 
How  can  she — since  she  does  not  under 
stand  me?  But  she  allows  me  to  love 
her — and  that  carries  me  a  long  way. 
There  are  many — oh,  a  great  many — 
who  will  not  allow  you  to  love  them  if 
you  would. 

There  is  no  one  to  love  me  now. 

Always  I  wonder  how  it  will  be  after 
some  long  years  when  I  find  myself 
about  to  die. 


121 


7. 

IN  THIS  house  where  I  drag  out 
my  accursed,  devilish,  weary  exist 
ence,  upstairs  in  the  bathroom,  on 
the  little  ledge  at  the  top  of  the  wain 
scoting,  there  are  six  tooth-brushes:  an 
ordinary  white  bone-handled  one  that 
is  my  younger  brother's;  a  white 
twisted-handled  one  that  is  my  sister's; 
a  flat-handled  one  that  is  my  older 
brother's;  a  celluloid-handled  one  that 
is  my  stepfather's;  a  silver-handled 
one  that  is  mine;  and  another  ordinary 
one  that  is  my  mother's.  The  sight  of 
these  tooth-brushes  day  after  day,  week 
after  week,  and  always,  is  one  of  the 
most  crushingly  maddening  circum 
stances  in  my  fool's  life. 

Every  Friday  I  wash  up  the  bath 
room.  Usually  I  like  to  do  this.  I  like 
the  feeling  of  the  water  squeezing 
through  my  fingers,  and  always  it 
leaves  my  nails  beautifully  neat.  But 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     123 

the  obviousness  of  those  six  tooth 
brushes  signifying  me  and  the  five  other 
members  of  this  family  and  the  aim 
less  emptiness  of  my  existence  here — 
Friday  after  Friday — makes  my  soul 
weary  and  my  heart  sick. 

Never  does  the  pitiable,  barren,  con 
temptible,  damnable,  narrow  Nothing 
ness  of  my  life  in  this  house  come  upon 
me  with  so  intense  a  force  as  when 
my  eyes  happen  upon  those  six  tooth 
brushes. 

Among  the  horrors  of  the  Inquisi 
tion,  a  minute  refinement  of  cruelty  was 
reached  when  the  victim's  head  was 
placed  beneath  a  never-ceasing  falling 
of  water,  drop  by  drop. 

A  convict  sentenced  to  solitary  con 
finement,  spending  his  endless  days 
staring  at  four  blank  walls,  feels  that 
had  he  committed  every  known  crime 
he  could  not  possibly  deserve  his  pun 
ishment. 

I  am  not  undergoing  an  Inquisition, 
nor  am  I  a  convict  in  solitary  confine- 


124    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

ment.  But  I  live  in  a  house  with  people 
who  affect  me  mostly  through  their 
tooth-brushes — and  those  I  should  like, 
above  all  things,  to  gather  up  and 
pitch  out  of  the  bathroom  window — 
and  oh,  damn  them,  damn  them! 

You  who  read  this,  can  you  under 
stand  the  depth  of  bitterness  and  hatred 
that  is  contained  in  this  for  me?  Per 
haps  you  can  a  little  if  you  are  a  woman 
and  have  felt  yourself  alone. 

When  I  look  at  the  six  tooth-brushes 
a  fierce,  lurid  storm  of  rage  and  passion 
comes  over  me.  Two  heavy  leaden 
hands  lay  hold  of  my  life  and  press, 
press,  press.  They  strike  the  sick,  sick 
weariness  to  my  inmost  soul. 

Oh,  to  leave  this  house  and  these 
people,  and  this  intense  Nothingness — 
oh,  to  pass  out  from  them,  forever! 
But  where  can  I  go,  what  can  I  do?  I 
feel  with  mad  fury  that  I  am  helpless. 
The  grasp  of  the  stepfather  and  the 
mother  is  contemptible  and  absurd — 
but  with  the  persistence  and  tenacity  of 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     125 

narrow  minds.  It  is  like  the  two  heavy 
leaden  hands.  It  is  not  seen — it  is  not 
tangible.  It  is  felt. 

Once  I  took  away  my  own  silver- 
handled  tooth-brush  from  the  bathroom 
ledge,  and  kept  it  in  my  bedroom  for  a 
day  or  two.  I  thought  to  lessen  the 
effect  of  the  six. 

I  put  it  back  in  the  bathroom. 

The  absence  of  one  accentuated  the 
significant  damnation  of  the  others. 
There  was  something  more  forcibly 
maddening  in  the  five  than  in  the  six 
tooth-brushes.  The  damnation  was 
not  worse,  but  it  developed  my  feeling 
about  them  more  vividly. 

And  so  I  put  my  tooth-brush  back  in 
the  bathroom. 

This  house  is  comfortably  furnished. 
My  mother  spends  her  life  in  the 
adornment  of  it.  The  small  square 
rooms  are  distinctly  pretty. 

But  when  I  look  at  them  seeingly  I 
think  of  the  proverb  about  the  dinner 
of  stalled  ox. 


126    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

Yet  there  is  no  hatred  here,  except 
mine  and  my  bitterness.  I  am  the  only 
one  of  them  whose  bitter  spirit  cries 
out  against  things. 

But  there  is  that  which  is  subtler  and 
strikes  deeper.  There  is  the  lack  of 
sympathy — the  lack  of  everything  that 
counts:  there  is  the  great,  deep  Noth 
ing. 

How  much  better  were  there  hatred 
here  than  Nothing! 

I  long  hopelessly  for  will-power,  reso 
lution  to  take  my  life  into  my  own 
hands,  to  walk  away  from  this  house 
some  day  and  never  return.  I  have 
nowhere  to  go — no  money,  and  I  know 
the  world  quite  too  well  to  put  the 
slightest  faith  in  its  voluntary  kindness 
of  heart.  But  how  much  better  and 
wider,  less  damned,  less  maddening,  to 
go  out  into  it  and  be  beaten  and 
cheated  and  fooled  with,  than  this!— 
this  thing  that  gathers  itself  easily  into 
a  circle  made  of  six  tooth-brushes  with 
a  sufficiency  of  surplus  damnation. 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     127 

I  have  read  about  a  woman  who  went 
down  from  Jerusalem  to  Jericho  and 
fell  among  thieves.  Perhaps  she  had  a 
house  at  Jerusalem  with  six  tooth 
brushes  and  Nothingness.  In  that  case 
she  might  have  rushed  gladly  into  the 
arms  of  thieves. 

I  think  of  crimes  that  strike  horror 
and  revulsion  to  my  maid-senses.  And 
I  think  of  my  Nothingness,  and  I  ask 
myself  were  it  not  better  to  walk  the 
earth  an  outcast,  a  solitary  woman,  and 
meet  and  face  even  these,  than  that 
each  and  every  one  of  my  woman- 
senses  should  wear  slowly,  painfully  to 
shreds,  and  strain  and  break — in  this 
unnameable  Nothing? 

Oh,  the  dreariness — the  hopelessness 
of  Nothing! 

There  are  no  words  to  tell  it.  And 
things  are  always  hardest  to  bear  when 
there  are  no  words  for  them. 

However  great  one's  gift  of  language 
may  be,  there  is  always  something  that 
one  can  not  tell. 


1 28  THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

I  am  weary  of  self — always  self.  But 
it  must  be  so. 

My  life  is  filled  with  self. 

If  my  soul  could  awaken  fully  per 
haps  I  might  be  lifted  out  of  myself — 
surely  I  should  be.  But  my  soul  is  not 
awake.  It  is  awakening,  trying  to 
open  its  eyes;  and  it  is  crying  out 
blindly  after  something,  but  it  can  not 
know.  I  have  a  dreadful  feeling  that  it 
will  stay  always  like  this. 

Oh,  I  feel  everything — everything!  I 
feel  what  might  be.  And  there  is 
Nothing.  There  are  six  tooth-brushes. 

Would  I  stop  for  a  few  fine  distinc 
tions,  a  theory,  a  natural  law  even,  to 
escape  from  this  into  Happiness — or 
into  something  greatly  less? 

Misery — misery!  If  only  I  could  feel 
it  less! 

Oh,  the  weariness,  the  weariness — as 
I  await  the  Devil's  coming. 


jfebruars  8. 

OFTEN  I  walk  out  to  a  place  on 
the  flat  valley  below  the  town, 
to  flirt   with    Death.      There   is 
within  me  a  latent  spirit  of  coquetry,  it 
appears. 

Down  on  the  flat  there  is  a  certain 
deep,  dark  hole  with  several  feet  of 
water  at  the  bottom. 

This  hole  completely  fascinates  me. 
Sometimes  when  I  start  out  to  walk  in 
a  quite  different  direction,  I  feel  im 
pelled  almost  irresistibly  to  turn  and  go 
down  on  the  flat  in  the  direction  of  the 
fascinating,  deep  black  hole. 

And  here  I  flirt  with  Death.  The 
hole  is  so  narrow — only  about  four  feet 
across — and  so  dark,  and  so  deep!  I 
don't  know  whether  it  was  intended  to 
be  a  well,  or  whether  it  is  an  abandoned 
shaft  of  some  miner.  At  any  rate  it  is 
isolated  and  deserted,  and  it  has  a  rare 
loving  charm  for  me. 
129 


I3O    THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

I  go  there  sometimes  in  the  early 
evening,  and  kneel  on  the  edge  of  it  and 
lean  over  the  dark  pit,  with  my  hand 
grasping  a  wooden  stake  that  is  driven 
into  the  ground  near  by.  And  I  drop 
little  stones  down  and  hear  them  splash 
hollowly,  and  it  sounds  a  long  way  off. 

There  is  something  wonderfully 
soothing,  wonderfully  comforting  to  my 
unrestful,  aching  wooden  heart  in  the 
dark  mystery  of  this  fascinating  hole. 
Here  is  the  End  for  me,  if  I  want  it — 
here  is  the  Ceasing,  when  I  want  it. 
And  I  leanpver  and  smile  quietly. 

"No  flowers,"  I  say  softly  to  myself, 
"no  weeping  idiots,  no  senseless 
funeral,  no  oily  undertaker  fussing  over 
my  woman's-body,  no  useless  Christian 
prayers.  Nothing  but  this  deep  dark 
restful  grave." 

No  one  would  ever  find  it.  It  is  a 
mile  and  a  half  from  any  house. 

The  water — the  dark  still  water  at 
the  bottom — would  gurgle  over  me  and 
make  an  end  quickly.  Or  if  I  feared 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE  13! 

there  was  not  enough  water,  I  would 
bring  with  me  a  syringe  and  some  mor 
phine  and  inject  an  immense  quantity 
into  one  white  arm,  and  kneel  over  the 
tender  darkness  until  my  youth-weary, 
waiting-worn  senses  should  be  over 
come,  and  my  slim,  light  body  should 
fall.  It  would  splash  into  the  water  at 
the  bottom — it  would  follow  the  little 
stones  at  last.  And  the  black,  muddy 
water  would  soak  in  and  begin  the  de 
stroying  of  my  body,  and  murky  bub 
bles  would  rise  so  long  as  my  lungs 
continued  to  breathe.  Or  perhaps  my 
body  would  fall  against  the  side  of  the 
hole,  and  the  head  would  lie  against  it 
out  of  the  water.  Or  perhaps  only  the 
face  would  be  out  of  the  water,  turned 
upward  to  the  light  above — or  turned 
half-down,  and  the  hair  would  be  darkly 
wet  and  heavy,  and  the  face  would  be 
blue-white  below  it,  and  the  eyes  would 
sink  inward. 

"The  End,  the  End!"  I  say  softly  and 
ecstatically.     Yet  I  do  not  lean  farther 


132    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

out.  My  hand  does  not  loosen  its 
tight  grasp  on  the  wooden  stake.  I 
am  only  flirting  with  Death  now. 

Death  is  fascinating — almost  like  the 
Devil.  Death  makes  use  of  all  his  arts 
and  wiles,  powerful  and  alluring,  and 
flirts  with  deadly  temptation  for  me. 
And  I  make  use  of  my  arts  and  wiles — 
and  tempt  him. 

Death  would  like  dearly  to  have  me, 
and  I  would  like  dearly  to  have  him. 
It  is  a  flirtation  that  has  its  source  in 
mutual  desire.  We  do  not  love  each 
other,  Death  and  I, — we  are  not 
friends.  But  we  desire  each  other 
sensually,  lustfully. 

Sometime  I  suppose  I  shall  yield  to 
the  desire.  I  merely  play  at  it  now — but 
in  an  unmistakable  manner.  Death 
knows  it  is  only  a  question  of  time. 

But  first  the  Devil  must  come.  First 
the  Devil,  then  Death:  a  deep  dark 
soothing  grave — and  the  early  even 
ing,  "and  a  little  folding  of  the  hands 
to  sleep." 


_  12. 

I  AM  in  no  small  degree,  I  find,  a 
sham — a  player  to  the  gallery. 
Possibly  this  may  be  felt  as  you 
read  these  analyses. 

While  all  of  these  emotions  are  writ 
ten  in  the  utmost  seriousness  and  sin 
cerity,  and  are  exactly  as  I  feel  them, 
day  after  day — so  far  as  I  have  the 
power  to  express  what  I  feel — still  I  aim 
to  convey  through  them  all  the  idea  that 
I  am  lacking  in  the  grand  element  of 
Truth — that  there  is  in  the  warp  and 
woof  of  my  life  a  thread  that  is  false — 
false. 

I  don't  know  how  to  say  this  without 
the  fear  of  being  misunderstood. 
When  I  say  I  am  in  a  way  a  sham,  I 
have  no  reference  to  the  truths  as  I 
have  given  them  in  this  Portrayal,  but 
to  a  very  light  and  subtle  thing  that 
runs  through  them. 

Oh,  do  not  think  for  an  instant  that 
133 


134    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

this  analysis  of  my  emotions  is  not  per 
fectly  sincere  and  real,  and  that  I  have 
not  felt  all  of  them  more  than  I  can 
put  into  words.  They  are  my  tears— 
my  life-blood! 

But  in  my  life,  in  my  personality, 
there  is  an  essence  of  falseness  and  in 
sincerity.  A  thin,  fine  vapor  of  fraud 
hangs  always  over  me  and  dampens 
and  injures  some  things  in  me  that  I 
value. 

I  have  not  succeeded  thoroughly  in 
analyzing  this — it  is  so  thin,  so  elusive, 
so  faint — and  yet  not  little.  It  is  a  nat 
ural  thing  enough  viewed  in  the  light 
of  my  other  traits. 

I  have  lived  my  nineteen  years  buried 
in  an  environment  at  utter  variance 
with  my  natural  instincts,  where  my 
inner  life  is  never  touched,  and  my 
sympathies  very  rarely,  if  ever,  ap 
pealed  to.  I  never  disclose  my  real  de 
sires  or  the  texture  of  my  soul.  Never, 
that  is  to  say,  to  any  one  except  my  one 
friend,  the  anemone  lady. — And  so 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     135 

every  day  of  my  life  I  am  playing  a 
part;  I  am  keeping  an  immense  bundle 
of  things  hidden  under  my  cloak. 
When  one  has  played  a  part — a  false 
part — all  one's  life,  for  I  was  a  sly,  art 
ful  little  liar  even  in  the  days  of  five 
and  six;  then  one  is  marked.  One  may 
never  rid  oneself  of  the  mantle  of  false 
ness,  charlatanry — particularly  if  one  is 
innately  a  liar. 

A  year  ago  when  the  friendship  of 
my  anemone  lady  was  given  me,  and 
she  would  sometimes  hear  sympathet 
ically  some  long-silent  bit  of  pain,  I  felt 
a  snapping  of  tense-drawn  cords,  a 
breaking  away  of  flood-gates — and  a 
strange,  new  pain.  I  felt  as  if  I  must 
clasp  her  gentle  hand  tightly  and  give 
way  to  the  pent-up,  surging  tears  of 
eighteen  years.  I  had  wanted  this  ten 
der  thing  more  than  anything  else  all 
my  life,  and  it  was  given  me  suddenly. 

I  felt  a  convulsion  and  a  melting, 
within. 

But  I  could  not  tell  my  one  friend  ex- 


136  THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

actly  what  I  felt.  There  was  no  doubt 
in  my  own  mind  as  to  my  own  perfect 
sincerity  of  feeling,  but  there  was  with 
it  and  around  it  this  vapor  of  fraud,  a 
spirit  of  falseness  that  rose  and  con 
fronted  me  and  said,  "hypocrite,"  "fool." 

It  may  be  that  the  spirit  of  falseness 
is  itself  a  false  thing — yet  true  or  false, 
it  is  with  me  always.  I  have  tried,  in 
writing  out  my  emotions,  to  convey  an 
idea  of  this  sham  element  while  still 
telling  everything  faithfully  true. 
Sometimes  I  think  I  have  succeeded, 
and  at  other  times  I  seem  to  have  sig 
nally  failed.  This  element  of  falseness 
is  absolutely  the  very  thinnest,  the  very 
finest,  the  rarest  of  all  the  things  in  my 
many-sided  character. 

It  is  not  the  most  unimportant. 

I  have  seen  visions  of  myself  walking 
in  various  pathways.  I  have  seen  my 
self  trying  one  pathway  and  another. 
And  always  it  is  the  same:  I  see  before 
me  in  the  path,  darkening  the  way  and 
filling  me  with  dread  and  discourage- 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     137 

ment,  a  great  black  shadow  —  the 
shadow  of  my  own  element  of  false 
ness. 

I  can  not  rid  myself  of  it. 

I  am  an  innate  liar. 

This  is  a  hard  thing  to  write  about. 
Of  all  things  it  is  the  most  liable  to  be 
misunderstood.  You  will  probably 
misunderstand  it,  for  I  have  not  suc 
ceeded  in  giving  the  right  idea  of  it.  I 
aimed  at  it  and  missed  it.  It  eluded 
me  completely. 

You  must  take  the  idea  as  I  have  just 
now  presented  it  for  what  it  may  be 
worth.  This  is  as  near  as  I  can  come 
to  it.  But  it  is  something  infinitely 
finer  and  rarer. 

It  is  a  difficult  task  to  show  to  others 
a  thing  which,  though  I  feel  and  recog 
nize  it  thoroughly,  I  have  not  yet  ana 
lyzed  for  myself. 

But  this  is  a  complete  Portrayal  of 
me — as  I  await  the  Devil's  coming — and 
I  must  tell  everything — everything. 


jfebruaq?  13. 

SO  THEN,  yes.  As  I  have  said,  I 
find  that  I  am  quite,  quite  odd. 
My  various  acquaintances  say 
that  I  am  funny.  They  say,  "Oh,  it's 
that  May  Mac  Lane,  Dolly's  younger 
sister.  She's  funny."  But  I  call  it  odd 
ity.  I  bear  the  hall-mark  of  oddity. 

There  was  a  time,  a  year  or  two  since, 
when  I  was  an  exceedingly  sensitive 
little  fool — sensitive  in  that  it  used  to 
strike  very  deep  when  my  young  ac 
quaintances  would  call  me  funny  and 
find  in  me  a  vent  for  their  distinctly  un 
friendly  ridicule.  My  years  in  the  high 
school  were  not  years  of  joy.  Two 
years  ago  I  had  not  yet  risen  above 
these  things.  I  was  a  sensitive  little 
fool. 

But  that  sensitiveness,  I  rejoice  to 
say,  has  gone  from  me.  The  opinion 
of  these  young  people,  or  of  these  old 
138 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     139 

people,  is  now  a  thing  that  is  quite  un 
able  to  affect  me. 

The  more  I  see  of  conventionality,  it 
seems,  the  more  I  am  odd. 

Though  I  am  young  and  feminine — 
very  feminine — yet  I  am  not  that  quaint 
conceit,  a  girl:  the  sort  of  person  that 
Laura  E.  Richards  writes  about,  and 
Nora  Perry,  and  Louisa  M.  Alcott, — 
girls  with  bright  eyes,  and  with  charm 
ing  faces  (they  always  have  charming 
faces),  standing  with  reluctant  feet 
where  the  brook  and .  river  meet, — and 
all  that  sort  of  thing. 

I  missed  all  that. 

I  have  read  some  girl-books,  a  few 
years  ago — "Hildegarde  Grahame," 
and  "What  Katy  Did,"  and  all— but  I 
read  them  from  afar.  I  looked  at 
those  creatures  from  behind  a  high 
board  fence.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  more 
tastes  in  common  with  the  Jews  wan 
dering  through  the  wilderness,  or  with 
a  band  of  fighting  Amazons.  I  am  not 
a  girl.  I  am  a  woman,  of  a  kind.  I  be- 


I4O    THE    STORY   OF   MARY    MAC  LANE 

gan  to  be  a  woman  at  twelve,  or  more 
properly,  a  genius. 

And  then,  usually,  if  one  is  not  a  girl 
one  is  a  heroine — of  the  kind  you  read 
about.  But  I  am  not  a  heroine,  either. 
A  heroine  is  beautiful — eyes  like  the 
sea  shoot  opaque  glances  from  under 
drooping  lids — walks  with  undulating 
movements,  her  bright  smile  haunts 
one  still,  falls  methodically  in  love  with 
a  man — always  with  a  man,  eats  things 
(they  are  always  called  "viands")  with  a 
delicate  appetite,  and  on  special  occa 
sions  her  voice  is  full  of  tears.  I  do 
none  of  these  things.  I  am  not  beauti 
ful.  I  do  not  walk  with  undulating 
movements — indeed,  I  have  never  seen 
any  one  walk  so,  except,  perhaps,  a 
cow  that  has  been  overfed.  My  bright 
smile  haunts  no  one.  I  shoot  no 
opaque  glances  from  my  eyes,  which 
are  not  like  the  sea  by  any  means.  I 
have  never  eaten  any  viands,  and  my 
appetite  for  what  I  do  eat  is  most 
excellent.  And  my  voice  has  never 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE  14! 

yet,  to  my  knowledge,  been  full  of 
tears. 

No,  I  am  not  a  heroine. 

There  never  seem  to  be  any  plain 
heroines,  except  Jane  Eyre,  and  she 
was  very  unsatisfactory.  She  should 
have  entered  into  marriage  with  her 
beloved  Rochester  in  the  first  place.  I 
should  have,  let  there  be  a  dozen  mad 
wives  upstairs.  But  I  suppose  the 
author  thought  she  must  give  her 
heroine  some  desirable  thing — high 
moral  principles,  since  she  was  not 
beautiful.  Some  people  say  that 
beauty  is  a  curse.  It  may  be  true,  but 
I'm  sure  I  should  not  have  at  all 
minded  being  cursed  a  little.  And  I 
know  several  persons  who  might  well 
say  the  same.  But,  anyway,  I  wish 
some  one  would  write  a  book  about  a 
plain,  bad  heroine  so  that  I  might  feel 
in  real  sympathy  with  her. 

So  far  from  being  a  girl  or  a  heroine, 
I  am  a  thief — as  I  have  before  suggested. 

I  mind  me  of  how,  not  long  since,  I 


142    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

stole  three  dollars.  A  woman  whom  I 
know  rather  well,  and  lives  near,  called 
me  into  her  house  as  I  was  passing  and 
asked  me  to  do  an  errand  for  her.  She 
was  having  an  ornate  gown  made,  and 
she  needed  some  more  applique  with 
which  to  festoon  it.  The  applique  cost 
nine  dollars  a  yard.  My  trusting 
neighbor  gave  me  a  bit  of  the  braid  for 
a  sample  and  two  twenty-dollar  bills. 
I  was  to  get  four  yards.  I  did  so,  and 
came  back  and  gave  her  the  braid  and 
a  single  dollar.  The  other  three  dol 
lars  I  kept  myself.  I  wanted  three  dol 
lars  very  much,  to  put  with  a  few  that  I 
already  had  in  my  purse.  My  trusting 
neighbor  is  of  the  kind  that  throws 
money  about  carelessly.  I  knew  she 
would  not  pay  any  attention  to  a  little 
detail  like  that, — she  was  deeply  inter 
ested  in  her  new  frock;  or  perhaps  she 
would  think  I  had  got  thirty-nine  dol 
lars'  worth  of  applique.  At  any  rate, 
she  did  not  need  the  money,  and  I 
wanted  three  dollars,  and  so  I  stole  it. 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     143 

I  am  a  thief. 

It  has  been  suggested  to  me  that  I 
am  a  kleptomaniac.  But  I  am  sure  my 
mind  is  perfectly  sane.  I  have  no 
such  excuse.  I  am  a  plain,  downright 
thief. 

This  is  only  one  of  my  many  pecula 
tions.  I  steal  money,  or  anything  that 
I  want,  whenever  I  can,  nearly  always. 
It  amuses  me  —  and  one  must  be 
amused. 

I  have  only  two  stipulations:  that  the 
person  to  whom  it  belongs  does  not 
need  it  pressingly,  and  that  there  is  not 
the  smallest  chance  of  being  found  out. 
(And  of  course  I  could  not  think  of 
stealing  from  my  one  friend.) 

It  would  be  extremely  inconvenient 
to  be  known  as  a  thief,  merely. 

When  the  world  knows  you  are  a 
thief  it  blinds  itself  completely  to  your 
other  attributes.  It  calls  you  a  thief, 
and  there's  an  end.  I  am  a  genius  as 
well  as  a  thief — but  the  world  would 
quite  overlook  that  fact.  "A  thief's  a 


144  THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

thief,"  says  the  world.  That  is  very 
true.  But  the  mere  fact  of  being  a 
thief  should  not  exclude  the  considera 
tion  of  one's  other  traits.  When  the 
world  knows  you  are  a  Methodist  min 
ister,  for  instance,  it  will  admit  that  you 
may  also  be  a  violinist,  or  a  chemist,  or 
a  poet,  and  will  credit  you  therefor. 
And  so  if  it  condemns  you  for  being  a 
thief,  it  should  at  the  same  time  admire 
you  for  being  a  genius.  If  it  does  not 
admire  you  for  being  a  genius,  then  it 
has  no  right  to  condemn  you  for  being 
a  thief. 

— And  why  the  world  should  condemn 
any  one  for  being  a  thief — when  there 
is  not  within  its  confines  any  one  who 
is  not  a  thief  in  some  way — is  a  bit  of 
irony  upon  which  I  have  wasted  much 
futile  logic. — 

I  am  not  trying  to  justify  myself  for 
stealing.  I  do  not  consider  it  a  thing 
that  needs  to  be  justified,  any  more  than 
walking  or  eating  or  going  to  bed. 
But,  as  I  say,  if  the  world  knew  that  I 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     145 

am  a  thief  without  being  first  made 
aware  with  emphasis  that  I  am  some 
other  things  also,  then  the  world  would 
be  a  shade  cooler  for  me  than  it 
already  is — which  would  be  very  cool 
indeed. 

And  so  in  writing  my  Portrayal  I 
have  dwelt  upon  other  things  at  some 
length  before  touching  on  my  thieving 
propensities. 

None  of  my  acquaintances  would  sus 
pect  that  I  am  a  thief.  I  look  so  re 
spectable,  so  refined,  so  "nice,"  so 
inoffensive,  so  sweet,  even! 

But,  for  that  matter,  I  am  a  great 
many  things  that  I  do  not  appear  to 
be.  ' 

The  woman  from  whom  I  stole  the 
three  dollars,  if  she  reads  this,  will  rec 
ognize  it.  This  will  be  inconvenient.  I 
fervently  hope  she  may  not  read  it.  It 
is  true  she  is  not  of  the  .kind  that 
reads. 

But,  after  all,  it's  of  no  consequence. 
This  Portrayal  is  Mary  Mac  Lane:  her 


146  THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

wooden  heart,  her  young  woman's- 
body,  her  mind,  her  soul. 

The  world  may  run  and  read. 

I  will  tell  you  what  I  did  with  the 
three  dollars.  In  Dublin  Gulch,  which 
is  a  rough  quarter  of  Butte  inhabited 
by  poor  Irish  people,  there  lives  an 
old  world  -  soured,  wrinkled  -  faced 
woman.  She  lives  alone  in  a  small, 
untidy  house.  She  swears  frightfully 
like  a  parrot,  and  her  reputation  is 
bad — so  bad,  indeed,  that  even  the  old 
woman's  compatriots  in  Dublin  Gulch 
do  not  visit  her  lest  they  damage  their 
own.  It  is  true  that  the  profane  old 
woman's  morals  are  not  good — have 
never  been  good — judged  by  the  world's 
standards.  She  bears  various  marks  of 
cold,  rough  handling  on  her  mind  and 
body.  Her  life  has  all  but  run  its 
course.  She  is  worn  out. 

Once  in  a  while  I  go  to  visit  this  old 
woman — my  reputation  must  be  sadly 
damaged  by  now. 

I  sit  with  her  for  an  hour  or  two  and 


THE    STORY  OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     147 

listen  to  her.  She  is  extremely  glad 
to  have  me  there.  Except  me  she  has 
no  one  to  talk  to  but  the  milkman,  the 
groceryman,  and  the  butcher.  So 
always  she  is  glad  to  see  me.  There  is 
a  certain  bond  of  sympathy  between  her 
and  me.  We  are  fond  of  each  other. 
When  she  sees  me  picking  my  way 
towards  her  house,  her  hard,  sour  face 
softens  wonderfully  and  a  light  of  dis 
tinct  friendliness  comes  into  her  green 
eyes. 

Don't  you  know,  there  are  few  people 
enough  in  the  world  whose  hard,  sour 
faces  will  soften  at  sight  of  you  and  a 
distinctly  friendly  light  come  into  their 
green  eyes.  For  myself,  I  find  such 
people  few  indeed. 

So  the  profane  old  woman  and  I  are 
fond  of  each  other.  No  question  of 
morals,  or  of  immorals,  comes  between 
us.  We  are  equals. 

I  talk  to  her  a  little — but  mostly  she 
talks.  She  tells  me  of  the  time  when 
she  lived  in  County  Galway,  when  she 


148    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

was  young — and  of  her  several  hus 
bands,  and  of  some  who  were  not  hus 
bands,  and  of  her  children  scattered 
over  the  earth.  And  she  shows  me  old 
tin-types  of  these  people.  She  has  told 
me  the  varied  tale  of  her  life  a  great 
many  times.  I  like  to  hear  her  tell  it. 
It  is  like  nothing  else  I  have  heard. 
The  story  in  its  unblushing  simplicity, 
the  sour-faced  old  woman  sitting  tell 
ing  it,  and  the  tin-types, — contain  a 
thing  that  is  absurdly,  grotesquely, 
tearlessly  sad. 

Once  when  I  went  to  her  house  I 
brought  with  me  six  immense,  heavy, 
fragrant  chrysanthemums. 

They  had  been  bought  with  the  three 
dollars  I  had  stolen. 

It  pleased  me  to  buy  them  for  the 
profane  old  woman.  They  pleased  her 
also — not  because  she  cares  much  for 
flowers,  but  because  I  brought  them  to 
her.  I  knew  they  would  please  her, 
but  that  was  not  the  reason  I  gave  her 
them- 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     149 

I  did  it  purely  and  simply  to  please 
myself. 

I  knew  the  profane  old  woman  would 
not  be  at  all  concerned  as  to  whether 
they  had  been  bought  with  stolen 
money  or  not,  and  my  only  regret  was 
that  I  had  not  had  an  opportunity  to 
steal  a  larger  sum  so  that  I  might  have 
bought  more  chrysanthemums  without 
inconveniencing  my  purse. 

But  as  it  was  they  filled  her  dirty 
little  dwelling  with  perfume  and 
color. 

Long  ago,  when  I  was  six,  I  was  a 
thief — only  I  was  not  then,  as  now,  a 
graceful,  light-fingered  thief — I  had  not 
the  philosophy  of  stealing. 

When  I  would  steal  a  copper  cent 
out  of  my  mother's  pocketbook  I  would 
feel  a  dreadful,  suffocating  sinking  in 
my  bad  heart,  and  for  days  and  nights 
afterwards — long  after  I  had  eaten  the 
chocolate  mouse  —  the  copper  cent 
would  haunt  me  and  haunt  me,  and  oh, 
how  I  wished  it  back  in  that  pocketbook 


150  THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

with  the  clasp  shut  tight  and  the  bureau 
drawer  locked! 

And  so,  is  it  not  finer  to  be  nineteen 
and  a  thief,  with  the  philosophy  of 
stealing — than  to  be  six  and  haunted 
day  and  night  by  a  copper  cent? 

For  now  always  my  only  regret  is, 
when  I  have  stolen  five  dollars,  that  I 
did  not  steal  ten  while  I  was  about  it. 

It  is  a  long  time  ago  since  I  was  six. 


17. 

TO-DAY  I  walked  over  the  hill 
where  the  sun  vanishes  down  in 
the  afternoon. 

I  followed  the  sun  so  far  as  I  could, 
but  two  even  very  good  legs  can  do  no 
more  than  carry  one  into  the  midst  of 
the  sunshine — and  then  one  may  stand 
and  take  leave,  lovingly,  of  it. 

I  stood  in  the  valley  below  the  hill 
and  looked  away  at  the  gold-yellow 
mountains  that  rise  into  the  cloudy 
blue,  and  at  the  long  gray  stretches  of 
rolling  sand.  It  all  reminded  me  of  the 
Devil  and  the  Happiness  he  will  bring 
me. 

Some  day  the  Devil  will  come  to  me 
and  say:  "Come  with  me." 

And  I  will  answer:  "Yes." 

And  he  will  take  me  away  with  him 
to  a  place  where  it  is  wet  and  green — 
where  the  yellow,  yellow  sunshine  falls 
151 


152     THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

on  heaven  -  kissing  hills,  and  misty, 
cloudy  masses  float  over  the  valleys. 

And  for  days  I  shall  be  happy — 
happy — happy! 

For  days!  The  Devil  and  I  will  love 
each  other  intensely,  perfectly — for 
days!  He  will  be  incarnate,  but  he 
will  not  be  a  man.  He  will  be  the  man- 
devil,  and  his  soul  will  take  mine  to 
itself  and  they  will  be  one — for  days. 

Imagine  me  raised  out  of  my  misery 
and  obscurity,  dullness  and  Nothing 
ness,  into  the  full,  brilliant  life  of  the 
Devil — for  days! 

The  love  of  the  man-devil  will  enter 
into  my  barren,  barren  life  and  melt  all 
the  cold,  hard  things,  and  water  the 
barrenness,  and  a  million  little  green 
growing  plants  will  start  out  of  it;  and 
a  clear,  sparkling  spring  will  flow  over 
it — through  the  dreary,  sandy  stretches 
of  my  bitterness,  among  the  false  stony 
roadways  of  my  pain  and  hatred.  And 
a  great  rushing,  flashing  cataract  of 
melting  love  will  flow  over  my  weari- 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     153 

ness  and  unrest  and  wash  it  away  for 
ever.  My  soul  will  be  fully  awakened 
and  there  will  be  a  million  little  sweet 
new  souls  in  the  green  growing  things. 
And  they  will  fill  my  life  with  every 
thing  that  is  beautiful — tenderness,  and 
divineness,  and  compassion,  and  exalta 
tion,  and  uplifting  grace,  and  light,  and 
rest,  and  gentleness,  and  triumph,  and 
truth,  and  peace.  My  life  will  be  borne 
far  out  of  self,  and  self  will  sink  quietly 
out  of  sight — and  I  shall  see  it  farther 
and  farther  away,  until  it  disappears. 

"It  is  the  last— the  last — of  that  Mary 
Mac  Lane,"  I  will  say,  and  I  will  feel  a 
long,  sighing,  quivering  farewell. 

A  thousand  years  of  misery — and 
now  a  million  years  of  Happiness. 

When  the  sun  is  setting  in  the  valley 
and  the  crests  of  those  heaven-kissing 
hills  are  painted  violet  and  purple,  and 
the  valley  itself  is  reeking  and  swim 
ming  in  yellow-gold  light,  the  man- 
devil — whom  I  love  more  than  all — and 
I  will  go  out  into  it, 


154    THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

We  will  be  saturated  in  the  yellow  light 
of  the  sun  and  the  gold  light  of  Love. 

The  man-devil  will  say  to  me:  "Look, 
you  little  creature,  at  this  beautiful 
picture  of  Joy  and  Happiness.  It  is 
the  picture  of  your  life  as  it  will  be 
while  I  am  with  you — and  I  am  with 
you  for  days." 

Ah,  yes,  I  will  take  a  last,  long  fare 
well  of  this  Mary  Mac  Lane.  Not  one 
faint  shadow  of  her  weary  wretched 
Nothingness  will  remain. 

There  will  be  instead  a  brilliant, 
buoyant,  joyous  creature — transformed, 
adorned,  garlanded  by  the  love  of  the 
Devil. 

My  mind  will  be  a  treasure-house  of 
art,  swept  and  garnished  and  strong 
and  at  its  best. 

My  barren,  hungry  heart  will  come  at 
last  to  its  own.  The  red  flames  of  the 
man-devil's  love  will  burn  out  forever  its 
pitiable,  distorted,  wooden  quality,  and 
he  will  take  it  and  cherish  it — and  give 
me  his. 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     155 

My  young  woman's-body  likewise  will 
be  metamorphosed,  and  I  shall  feel  it 
developing  and  filled  with  myriads  of 
little  contentments  and  pleasures. 
Always  my  young  woman's-body  is  a 
great  and  important  part  of  me,  and 
when  I  am  married  to  the  Devil  its 
finely-organized  nerve-power  and  intri 
cate  sensibility  will  be  culminated  to 
marvelous  completeness.  My  soul — 
upon  my  soul  will  descend  consciously 
the  light  that  never  was  on  land  or  sea. 

This  will  be  for  days — for  days. 

No  matter  what  came  before,  I  will 
say;  no  matter  what  comes  afterward. 
Just  now  it  is  the  man-devil,  my  best- 
beloved,  and  I,  living  in  the  yellow  light. 

Think  of  living  with  the  Devil  in  a 
bare  little  house,  in  the  midst  of  green 
wetness  and  sweetness  and  yellow 
light — for  days! 

In  the  gray  dawn  it  will  be  ineffably 
sweet  and  beautiful,  with  shining  leaves 
and  the  gray,  unfathomable  air,  and  the 
wet  grass,  and  all. 


156    THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

"Be  happy  now,  my  weary  little  wife," 
the  Devil  will  say. 

And  the  long,  long  yellow-gold  day 
will  be  filled  with  the  music  of  Real 
Life. 

My  grandest  possibility  will  be  real 
ized.  The  world  contains  a  great  many 
things — and  this  is  my  grandest  pos 
sibility  realized! 

I  will  weep  rapturous  tears. 

When  I  think  of  all  this  and  write  it 
there  is  in  me  a  feeling  that  is  more 
than  pain. 

Perhaps  the  very  sweetest,  the  ten- 
derest,  the  most  pitiful  and  benign 
human  voice  in  the  world  could  sing 
these  things  and  this  feeling  set  to  their 
own  wondrous  music, — and  it  would 
echo  far — far, — and  you  would  under 
stand. 


20. 

AT  TIMES  when  I  walk  among  the 
natural  things- — the  barren,  nat 
ural  things — I  know  that  I  believe 
in  Something.  Why  can  I  not  call  it 
God  and  pray  to  it? 

There  is  Something — I  do  not  know 
it  intellectually,  but  I  feel  it — I  feel  it — 
with  my  soul.  It  does  not  seem  to 
reach  down  to  me.  It  does  not  pity 
me.  It  does  not  look  at  me  tenderly 
in  my  unhappiness. 

My  soul  feels  only  that  it  is  there. 

No.  It  is  not  all-loving,  all-gracious, 
all-pitying.  It  hurts  me — it  hurts  me 
always  as  I  walk  over  the  sand.  But 
even  while  it  hurts  me  it  seems  to 
promise — ah,  those  beautiful  things 
that  it  promises  me! 

And  then  the  hurting  is  anguish — for 
I  know  that  the  promises  will  never  be 
fulfilled. 

There  is  within  me  a  thing  that  is 

157 


158    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

aching,  aching,  aching  always  as  the 
days  pass. 

It  is  not  my  pain  of  wanting,  nor  my 
pain  of  unrest,  nor  my  pain  of  bitter 
ness,  nor  of  hatred.  I  know  those  in 
all  their  own  anguish. 

This  aching  is  another  pain.  It  is  a 
pain  that  I  do  not  know — that  I  feel 
ignorantly  but  sharply,  and,  oh,  it  is 
torture,  torture! 

My  soul  is  worn  and  weary  with 
pain.  There  is  no  compassion — no 
mercy  upon  me.  There  is  no  one  to 
help  me  bear  it.  It  is  just  I  alone  out 
on  the  sand  and  barrenness.  It  is  cruel 
anguish  to  be  always  alone — and  so 
long — oh,  so  long! 

Nineteen  years  are  as  ages  to  you 
when  you  are  nineteen. 

When  you  are  nineteen  there  is  no 
experience  to  tell  you  that  all  things 
have  an  end. 

This  aching  pain  has  no  end. 

I  feel  no  tears  now,  but  I  feel  heavy 
sobs  that  shake  my  life  to  its  center. 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     159 

My  soul  is  wandering  in  a  wilderness. 

There  is  a  great  light  sometimes  that 
draws  my  soul  toward  it.  When  my 
soul  turns  toward  it,  it  shines  out  bril 
liant  and  dazzling  and  awful — and  the 
worn,  sensitive  thing  shrinks  away,  and 
shivers,  and  is  faint. 

Shall  my  soul  have  to  know  this 
Light,  inevitably?  Must  it,  some  day, 
plunge  into  this? 

Oh,  it  may  be — it  may  be.  But  I 
know  that  I  shall  die  with  the  pain. 

There  are  times  when  the  great 
Light  is  dim  and  beautiful  as  the 
starlight — the  utter  agony  of  it — the 
cruel,  ineffable  loveliness! 

Do  you  understand  this  ?  I  am 
telling  you  my  young,  passionate  life- 
agony?  Do  you  listen  to  it  indiffer 
ently?  Has  it  no  meaning  for  any  one? 
For  me  it  means  everything.  For  me 
it  makes  life  old,  long,  weariness. 

It  may  be  that  you  know.  And  per 
haps  you  would  even  weep  a  little  with 
me  if  you  had  time. 


I6O    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

It  is  as  if  this  Light  were  the  light  of 
the  Christian  religion — and  the  Chris 
tian  religion  is  full  of  hatred.  It  says, 
"Come  unto  me,  you  that  are  heavy 
laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest."  But 
when  you  would  go,  when  you  reach 
up  with  your  weary  hands,  it  sends  you 
a  too-brilliant  Light — it  makes  you 
fair,  wondrous  promises — it  puts  you 
off.  You  beseech  it  in  your  suffering — 

"While  the  waters  near  me  roll, 
While  the  tempest  still  is  high — ' 

but  it  does  not  listen — it  does  not  care. 
Worship  me,  worship  me,  it  says,  but 
after  that  let  me  alone.  There  is  a 
bookful  of  promises.  Take  it  and 
thank  me  and  worship  me. 

It  does  not  care. 

If  I  obey  it,  it  looks  on  indifferently. 
If  I  disobey  it,  it  looks  on  indifferently. 
If  I  am  in  woe,  it  looks  on  indifferently. 
If  I  am  in  a  brief  joy,  it  looks  on  in 
differently. 

I  am  left  all  alone — all  alone. 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     l6l 

The  Light  is  shown  me  and  I  reach 
after  it,  but  it  is  placed  high  out  of  my 
reach. 

I  see  the  promises  in  the  Light. 
Oh,  why — why  does  it  promise  these 
things!  Is  not  the  burden  of  life 
already  greater  than  I  can  bear?  And 
there  is  the  story  of  the  Christ.  It  is 
beautiful.  It  is  damningly  beautiful. 
It  draws  the'  tears  of  pain  and  soft 
anguish  from  me  at  the  sense  of  beauty. 
And  when  every  nerve  in  me  is  melted 
and  overflowing,  then  suddenly  I  am 
conscious  that  it  is  a  lie — a  lie. 

Everywhere  I  turn  there  is  Nothing — 
Nothing. 

My  soul  wails  out  its  grief  in  loneli 
ness. 

My  soul  wanders  hither  and  thither 
in  the  dark  wilderness  and  asks,  asks 
always  in  blind,  dull  agony,  How  long? 
— how  long? 


L 


jfebruars  22« 

IFE  is  a  pitiful  thing. 


162 


23, 

I  STAND  in  the  midst  of  my  sand 
and  barrenness  and  gaze  hard  at 
everything  that  is  within  my  range 
of  vision — and  ruin  my  eyes  trying  to 
see  into^the  darkness  beyond. 

And  nearly  always  I  feel  a  vague 
contempt  for  you,  fine,  brave  world — 
for  you  and  all  the  things  that  I  see 
from  my  barrenness.  But  I  promise 
you,  if  some  one  comes  from  among 
you  over  the  sunset  hill  one  day  with 
love  for  me,  I  will  fall  at  your  feet. 

I  am  a  selfish,  conceited,  impudent 
little  animal,  it  is  true,  but,  after  all,  I 
am  only  one  grand  conglomeration  of 
Wanting — and  when  some  one  comes 
over  the  barren  hill  to  satisfy  the  want 
ing.  I  will  be  humble,  humble  in  my 
triumph. 

It  is  a  difficult  thing — a  most  difficult 
thing — to  live  on  as  one  year  follows 

another,    from     childhood     slowly     to 
163 


1 64  THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

womanhood,  without  one  single  sharer 
of  your  life — to  be  alone,  always  alone, 
when  your  one  friend  is  gone.  Oh, 
yes,  it  is  hard!  Particularly  when  one 
is  not  high-minded  and  spiritual,  when 
one's  near  longing  is  not  a  God  and  a 
religion,  when  one  wants  above  all 
things  the  love  of  a  human  being— 
when  one  is  a  woman,  young  and  all 
alone.  Doubtless  you  know  this. 
After  all,  fine  brave  world,  there  are 
some  things  that  you  know  very  well. 
Whether  or  not  you  care  is  a  quite 
different  matter. 

You  have  the  power  to  take  this 
wooden  heart  in  a  tight,  suffocating 
grasp.  You  have  the  power  to  do  this 
with  pain  for  me,  and  you  have  the 
power  to  do  it  with  ravishing  gentle 
ness.  But  whether  or  not  you  will  is 
another  matter. 

You  may  think  evil  of  me  before  you 
have  finished  reading  this.  You  will  be 
very  right  to  think  so — according  to 
your  standards.  But  sometimes  you  see 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     165 

evil  where  there  is  no  evil,  and  think 
evil  when  the  only  evil  is  in  your  own 
brains. 

My  life  is  a  dry  and  barren  life. 
You  can  change  it. 

"Oh,  the  little  more,  and  how  much  it  is! 
And  the  little  less,  and  what  worlds  away." 

Yes,  you  can  change  it.  Stranger 
things  have  happened.  Again,  whether 
you  will — that  is  a  quite  different  thing. 

No  doubt  you  are  the  people  and  wis 
dom  will  die  with  you.  I  do  not  ques 
tion  that.  I  will  admit  and  believe 
anything  you  may  assert  about  your 
selves.  I  do  not  want  your  wisdom, 
your  judgment.  I  want  some  one  to 
come  up  over  the  barren  sunset  hill. 
My  thoughts  are  the  thoughts  of  youth, 
which  are  said  to  be  long,  long  thoughts. 

Your  life  is  multi-colored  and  filled 
with  people.  My  life  is  of  the  gray  of 
sand  and  barrenness,  and  consists  of 
Mary  Mac  Lane,  the  longing  for  Happi 
ness,  and  the  memory  of  the  anemone 
lady. 


1 66  THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

This  Portrayal  is  my  deepest  sin 
cerity,  my  tears,  my  drops  of  red  blood. 
Some  of  it  is  wrung  from  me — wrung 
by  my  ambition  to  tell  everything.  It  is 
not  altogether  good  that  I  should  give 
you  all  this,  since  I  do  not  give  it  for 
love  of  you.  I  am  giving  it  in  exchange 
for  a  few  gayly-colored  things.  I  want 
you  to  know  all  these  passions  and 
emotions.  I  give  them  with  the  utmost 
freedom.  I  shall  be  furious  indeed  if 
you  do  not  take  them.  At  the  same 
time,  the  fact  that  I  am  exchanging  my 
tears  and  my  drops  of  red  blood  for 
your  gayly-colored  trifles  is  not  a  thing 
that  thrills  me  with  delight. 

But  it's  of  little  moment.  When  the 
Devil  comes  over  the  hill  with  Happi 
ness  I  will  rush  at  him  frantically  head 
long — and  nothing  else  will  matter. 


ffebruarp  25. 

MARY  MAC  LANE  — what  are 
you,  you  forlorn,  desolate  little 
creature?  Why  are  you  not  of 
and  in  the  galloping  herd?  Why  is  it 
that  you  stand  out  separate  against  the 
background  of  a  gloomy  sky?  Why  can 
you  not  enter  into  the  lives  and  sym 
pathies  of  other  young  creatures? 
There  have  been  times  when  you 
strained  every  despairing  nerve  to  do 
so — before  you  realized  that  these 
things  were  not  for  you,  that  the  only 
sympathy  for  you  was  that  of  Mary 
Mac  Lane,  and  the  only  things  for  you 
were  those  you  could  take  yourself — 
not  which  were  given  you.  And  your 
things  are  few,  few,  you  starved,  lean 
little  mud-cat — you  worn,  youth-weary, 
obscure  little  genius! 

Oh,  it  is  a   wearisome  waiting — for 
the  Devil. 

167 


ffebruarp  28. 

TO-DAY  when  I  walked  over  my 
sand  and  barrenness  I  felt  Infi 
nite  Grief. 

Everything  is  beyond  me. 

Nothing  is  mine. 

My  single  friendship  shines  brightly 
before  me,  and  is  fascinating — and 
always  just  out  of  my  reach. 

I  want  the  love  and  sympathy  of 
human  beings,  and  I  repel  human 
beings. 

Yes,  I  repel  human  beings. 

There  is  something  about  me  that 
faintly  and  finely  and  unmistakably 
repels. 

When  my  Happiness  comes,  shall  I 
be  able  to  have  it?  Shall  I  ever  have 
anything? 

This  repellent  power  is  not  an  out 
ward  quality.  It  is  something  that 
comes  from  deeply,  deeply  within.  It 
is  something  that  was  there  in  the  Be- 

168 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     1 69 

ginning.  It  is  a  thing  from  the  Orig 
inal. 

There  is  no  ridding  myself  of  it. 
There  is  no  ridding  myself  of  it.  There 
is  no  ridding  myself  of  it. 

Oh,  I  am  damned — damned! 

There  is  not  one  soul  in  the  world  to 
feel  for  me  and  with  me — not  one  out 
of  all  the  millions.  No  one  can  under 
stand — no  one. 

You  are  saying  to  yourself  that  I 
imagine  this. 

What  right  have  you  to  say  so?  You 
don't  know  anything  about  me.  I  know 
all  about  me.  I  have  studied  all  the 
elements  and  phases  in  my  life  for 
years  and  years.  I  do  not  imagine 
anything.  I  am  even  fool  enough  to 
shut  my  eyes  to  some  things  until, 
inevitably,  I  know  I  must  meet  them. 
I  am  racked  with  the  passions  of  youth, 
and  I  am  young  in  years.  Beyond  that 
I  am  mature — old.  I  am  not  a  child  in 
anything  but  my  passions  and  my 
years.  I  feel  and  recognize  everything 


170  THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

thoroughly.  I  have  not  to  imagine 
anything.  My  inner  life  is  before  my 
eyes. 

There  is  something  about  me  that  no 
one  can  understand.  Can  there  ever 
be  any  one  to  understand?  Shall  I  not 
always  walk  my  barren  road  alone? 

This  follows  me  incessantly.  It  is 
burning  like  a  smouldering  fire  every 
hour  of  my  life. 

Oh,  deep  black  Despair! 

How  I  suffer,  how  I  suffer — just  in 
being  alive. 

I  feel  Infinite  Grief. 

Oh,  Infinite  Grief 


/iDarcb  2* 

OFTEN  in  the  early  morning  I 
leave  my  bed  and  get  me 
dressed  and  go  out  into  the 
Gray  Dawn.  There  is  something 
about  the  Gray  Dawn  that  makes  me 
wish  the  world  would  stop,  that  the  sun 
would  never  more  come  up  over  the 
edge,  that  my  life  would  go  on  and  on 
and  rest  in  the  Gray  Dawn. 

In  the  Gray  Dawn  every  hard  thing 
is  hidden  by  a  gray  mantle  of  charity, 
and  only  the  light,  vague,  caressing 
fancies  are  left. 

Sometimes  I  think  I  am  a  strange, 
strange  creature — something  not  of 
earth,  nor  yet  of  heaven,  nor  of  hell. 
I  think  at  times  I  am  a  little  thing 
fallen  on  the  earth  by  mistake:  a  thing 
thrown  among  foreign,  unfitting  ele 
ments,  where  there  is  nothing  in  touch 
with  it,  where  life  is  a  continual  strug 
gle,  where  every  little  door  is  closed — 
171 


every  Why  unanswered,  and  itself 
knows  not  where  to  lay  its  head.  I  feel 
a  deadly  certainty  in  some  moments 
that  the  wild  world  contains  not  one 
moment  of  rest  for  me,  that  there  will 
never  be  any  rest,  that  my  woman's- 
soul  will  go  on  asking  long,  long  cen 
turies  after  my  woman's-body  is  laid  in 
its  grave. 

I  felt  this  in  the  Gray  Dawn  this 
morning,  but  the  gray  charitable  man 
tle  softened  it.  Always  I  feel  most 
acutely  in  the  Gray  Dawn,  but  always 
there  is  the  thing  to  soften  it. 

The  gray  atmosphere  was  charged. 
There  was  a  tense  electrical  thrill  in 
the  cold,  soft  air.  My  nerves  were 
keenly  alive.  But  the  gray  curtain  was 
mercifully  there.  I  did  not  feel  too  much. 

How  I  wished  the  yellow,  beautiful 
sun  would  never  more  come  up  over 
the  edge  to  show  me  my  nearer  anguish! 

"Stay  with  me,  stay  with  me,  soft 
Gray  Dawn,"  implored  every  one  of 
my  tiny  lives.  "Let  me  forget.  Let 


THE    STORY   OF   MARY    MAC  LANE     173 

the  vanity,  the  pain,  the  longing  sink 
deep  and  vanish — all  of  it,  all  of  it! 
And  let  me  rest  in  the  midst  of  the 
Gray  Dawn. 

I  heard  music — the  silent  music  of 
myriad  voices  that  you  hear  when  all  is 
still.  One  of  them  came  and  whispered 
to  me  softly:  "Don't  suffer  any  more 
just  now,  little  Mary  Mac  Lane.  You 
suffer  enough  in  the  brightness  of  the 
sun  and  the  blackness  of  the  night. 
This  is  the  Gray  Dawn.  Take  a  little 
rest." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  will  take  a  little  rest." 

And  then  a  wild,  swelling  chorus  of 
voices  whispered  in  the  stillness:  "Rest, 
rest,  rest,  little  Mary  Mac  Lane.  Suffer 
in  the  brightness,  suffer  in  the  black 
ness — your  soul,  your  wooden  heart, 
your  woman's-body.  But  now  a  little 
rest — a  little  rest." 

"A  little  rest,"  I  said  again. 

And  straightway  I  began  resting  lest 
the  sun  should  come  too  quickly  over 
the  edge. 


174    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

When  I  have  heard  in  summer  the 
wind  in  a  forest  of  pines,  blowing  a 
wondrous  symphony  of  purity  and 
truth,  my  varied  nature  felt  itself 
abashed  and  there  was  a  sinking  in  my 
wooden  heart.  The  beauty  of  it  rav 
ished  my  senses,  but  it  savored  crush- 
ingly  of  the  virtue  that  is  far  above  and 
beyond  me,  and  I  felt  a  certain  sore, 
despairing  grief. 

But  the  Gray  Dawn  is  in  perfect  sym 
pathy.  It  is  quite  as  beautiful  as  the 
wind  in  the  pines,  and  its  truth  and 
purity  are  extremely  gentle,  and  partly 
hidden  under  the  gray  curtain. 

Almost  I  can  be  a  different  Mary 
Mac  Lane  out  in  the  Gray  Dawn.  Let 
me  forget  all  the  mingled  agonies  of 
my  life.  Let  me  walk  in  the  midst  of 
this  soft  grayness  and  drink  of  the 
waters  of  Lethe. 

The  Gray  Dawn  is  not  Paradise;  it  is 
not  a  Happy  Valley;  it  is  not  a  Garden 
of  Eden;  it  is  not  a  Vale  of  Cashmere. 
It  is  the  Gray  Dawn — soft,  charitable, 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     175 

tender.  "The  brilliant  celestial  yellow 
will  come  soon,"  it  says;  "you  will 
suffer  then  to  your  greatest  extent. 
But  now  I  am  here — and  so,  rest." 

And  so  in  the  Gray  Dawn  I  was  for 
getting  for  a  brief  period.  I  was  sub 
merged  for  a  little  in  Lethe,  river  of 
oblivion.  If  I  had  seen  some  one  com 
ing  over  the  near  horizon  with  Happi 
ness  I  should  have  protested:  Wait, 
wait  until  the  Gray  Dawn  has  passed. 

The  deep,  deep  blue  of  the  summer 
sky  stirs  me  to  a  half-painful  joy.  The 
cool  green  of  a  swiftly-flowing  river  fills 
my  heart  with  unquiet  longings.  The 
red,  red  of  the  sunset  sky  convulses  my 
entire  being  with  passion.  But  the  dear 
Gray  Dawn  brings  me  Rest. 

Oh,  the  Gray  Dawn  is  sweet — sweet! 

Could  I  not  die  for  very  love  of  it! 

The  Gray  Dawn  can  do  no  wrong. 
If  those  myriad  voices  suddenly  had 
begun  to  sing  a  voluptuous  evil  song  of 
the  so  great  evil  that  I  could  not  under 
stand,  but  that  I  could  feel  instantly, 


176  THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

still  the  Gray  Dawn  would  have  been 
fine  and  sweet  and  beautiful. 

Always  T  admire  Mary  Mac  Lane 
greatly — though  sometimes  in  my  ad 
miration  I  feel  a  complete  contempt  for 
her.  But  in  the  Gray  Dawn  I  love  Mary 
Mac  Lane  tenderly  and  passionately. 

I  seem  to  take  on  a  strange,  calm  in 
difference  to  everything  in  the  world 
but  just  Mary  Mac  Lane  and  the  Gray 
Dawn.  We  two  are  identified  with 
each  other  and  joined  together  in 
shadowy  vagueness  from  the  rest  of  the 
world. 

As  I  walked  over  my  sand  and  bar 
renness  in  the  Gray  Dawn  a  poem  ran 
continuously  through  my  mind.  It  ex 
pressed  to  me  in  my  gray  condition  an 
ideal  life  and  death  and  ending.  Every 
desire  of  my  life  melted  away  in  the 
Gray  Dawn  except  one  good  wish  that 
my  own  life  and  death  might  be  short 
and  obscure  and  complete  like  them. 
The  poem  was  this  beautiful  one  of 
Charles  Kingsley's: 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     177 

"  'Oh,  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee!' 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  with 

foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

"The  creeping  tide  came  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 
As  far  as  eye  could  see; 
The   blinding   mist  came    up    and    hid  the 

land — 
And  never  home  came  she. 

"Oh,  is  it  weed,  or  fish,   or  floating  hair? — 
A  tress  of  golden  hair, 
Of  drowned  maiden's  hair, 
Above  the  nets  at  sea. 

Was  never   salmon    yet    that  shone  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee. 

"They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 
The  cruel,  crawling  foam, 
The  cruel,  hungry  foam, 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea; 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle 

home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee." 


178    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

This  is  a  poem  perfect.  And  in  the 
Gray  Dawn  it  expresses  to  me  a  most 
desirable  thing — a  short,  eventless  life, 
a  sudden  ceasing,  and  a  forgotten  voice 
sometimes  calling.  This  Mary,  in  the 
Gray  Dawn,  would  wish  nothing  else. 
If  the  waters  rolled  over  me  now — over 
my  short,  eventless  life — there  would 
be  the  sudden  ceasing, — and'the  anem 
one  lady  would  hear  my  voice  some 
times,  and  remember  me — the  anemone 
lady  and  one  or  two  others.  And  after 
a  short  time  even  my  pathetic,  passion 
ate  voice  would  sound  faint  and  be  for 
gotten,  and  my  world  of  sand  and 
barrenness  would  know  me  and  my 
weary  little  life-tragedy  no  more. 

And  well  for  me,  I  say, — in  the  Gray 
Dawn. 

It  is  different — oh,  very  different — 
when  the  yellow  bursts  through  the 
gray.  And  the  yellow  is  with  me  all 
day  long,  and  at  sunset — the  red,  red 
line! 

Yet — oh,  sweet  Gray  Dawn! 


/IDarcb  5. 

SOMETIMES  I  am  seized  with 
nearer,  vivider  sensations  of  love 
for  my  one  friend,  the  anemone 
lady. 

She  is  so  dear — so  beautiful! 

My  love  for  her  is  a  peculiar  thing. 
It  is  not  the  ordinary  woman-love.  It 
is  something  that  burns  with  a  vivid 
fire  of  its  own.  The  anemone  lady  is 
enshrined  in  a  temple  on  the  inside  of 
my  heart  that  shall  always  only  be  hers. 

She  is  my  first  love — my  only  dear 
one. 

The  thought  of  her  fills  me  with  a 
multitude  of  feelings,  passionate  yet 
wonderfully  tender, — with  delight,  with 
rare,  undefined  emotions,  with  a  sug 
gestion  of  tears. 

Oh,  dearest  anemone  lady,  shall  I 
ever  be  able  to  forget  your  beautiful 
face!  There  may  be  some  long, 

crowded   years  before  me;    it  may  be 
179 


l8o  THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

there  will  be  people  and  people  enter 
ing  and  departing — but,  oh,  no — no,  I 
shall  never  forget!  There  will  be  in 
my  life  always — always  the  faint  sweet 
perfume  of  the  blue  anemone:  the 
memory  of  my  one  friend. 

Before  she  went  away,  to  see  her,  to 
be  near  her,  was  an  event  in  my  life — a 
coloring  of  the  dullness.  Always  when 
I  used  to  look  at  her  there  would  rush 
a  train  of  things  over  my  mind,  a 
vaguely  glittering  pageant  that  came 
only  with  her,  and  that  held  an  always- 
vivid  interest  for  me. 

There  were  manifold  and  varied 
treasures  in  this  train.  There  were 
skies  of  spangled  sapphire,  and  there 
were  lilies,  and  violets  wet  with  dew. 
There  was  the  music  of  violins,  and 
wonderful  weeds  from  the  deep  sea,  and 
songs  of  troubadours,  and  gleaming 
white  statues.  There  were  ancient 
forests  of  oak  and  clematis  vines;  there 
were  lemon-trees,  and  fretted  palaces, 
and  moss-covered  old  castles  with 


.  THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     l8l 

moats  and  draw-bridges  and  tiny  mul- 
lioned  windows  with  diamond  panes. 
There  was  a  cold,  glittering  cataract  of 
white  foam,  and  a  little  green  boat  far 
off  down  the  river,  drifting  along  under 
drooping  willows.  There  was  a  tree  of 
golden  apples,  and  a  banquet  in  a  beau 
tiful  house  with  the  melting  music  of 
lutes  and  harps,  and  mulled  orange-wine 
in  tall,  thin  glasses.  There  was  a  field 
of  long,  fine  grass,  soft  as  bat's-wool, 
and  there  were  birds  of  brilliant  plum 
age — scarlet  and  indigo  with  gold- 
tipped  wings. 

All  these  and  a  thousand  fancies 
alike  vaguely  glittering  would  rush 
over  me  when  I  was  with  the  anemone 
lady.  Always  my  brain  was  in  a  gentle 
delirium.  My  nerves  were  unquiet. 

It  was  because  I  love  her. 

Oh,  there  is  not — there  can  never 
be — another  anemone  lady! 

My  life  is  a  desert — a  desert,  but  the 
thin,  clinging  perfume  of  the  blue  anem 
one  reaches  to  its  utter  confines.  And 


I  &2  THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

nothing  in  the  desert  is  the  same  be 
cause  of  that  perfume.  Years  will 
not  fade  the  blue  of  the  anemone,  nor 
a  thousand  bitter  winds  blow  away  the 
rare  fragrance. 

I  feel  in  the  anemone  lady  a  strange 
attraction  of  sex.  There  is  in  me  a 
masculine  element  that,  when  I  am 
thinking  of  her,  arises  and  overshadows 
all  the  others. 

"Why  am  I  not  a  man,"  I  say  to  the 
sand  and  barrenness  with  a  certain 
strained,  tense  passion,  "that  I  might 
give  this  wonderful,  dear,  delicious 
woman  an  absolutely  perfect  love!" 

And  this  is  my  predominating  feeling 
for  her. 

So,  then,  it  is  not  the  woman-love, 
but  the  man-love,  set  in  the  mysterious 
sensibilities  of  my  woman-nature.  It 
brings  me  pain  and  pleasure  mingled 
in  that  odd,  odd  fashion. 

Do  you  think  a  man  is  the  only  crea 
ture  with  whom  one  may  fall  in  love? 

Often  I  see  coming  across  the  desert 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     183 

a  long  line  of  light.  My  soul  turns 
toward  it  and  shrinks  away  from  it  as 
it  does  from  all  the  lights.  Some  day, 
perhaps,  all  the  lights  will  roll  into  one 
terrible  white  effervescerice  and  rush 
over  my  soul  and  kill  it,  But  this  light 
does  not  bring  so  mucn  of  pain,  for  it  is 
soft  and  silvery,  and  always  with  it  is  the 
Soul  of  Anemone. 


/iDarcb  8. 

THERE  are  several  things  in  the 
world  for  which  I,  of  womankind 
and  nineteen  years,  have  con 
ceived  a  forcible  repugnance — or  rather, 
the  feeling  was  born  in  me;  I  did  not 
have  to  conceive  it. 

Often  my  mind  chants  a  fervent 
litany  of  its  own  that  runs  somewhat 
like  this: 

From  women  and  men  who  dispense 
odors  of  musk;  from  little  boys  with 
long  curls;  from  the  kind  of  people  who 
call  a  woman's  figure  her  "shape": 
Kind  Devil,  deliver  me. 

From  all  sweet  girls;  from  "gentle 
men";  from  feminine  men:  Kind  Devil, 
deliver  me. 

From  black  under-clothing — and  any 
color  but  white;  from  hips  that  wobble 
as  one  walks;  from  persons  with  fishy 
184 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     185 

eyes;  from  the  books  of  Archibald  C. 
Gunter  and  Albert  Ross:  Kind  Devil, 
deliver  me. 

From  the  soft  persistent,  maddening 
glances  of  water-cart  drivers:  Kind 
Devil,  deliver  me. 

From  lisle-thread  stockings;  from 
round,  tight  garters;  from  brilliant 
brass  belts:  Kind  Devil,  deliver  me. 

From  insipid  sweet  wine;  from  men 
who  wear  moustaches;  from  the  sort  of 
people  that  call  legs  "limbs";  from 
bedraggled  white  petticoats:  Kind 
Devil,  deliver  me. 

From  unripe  bananas;  from  bathless 
people;  from  a  waist-line  that  slopes 
up  in  the  front:  Kind  Devil,  deliver 
me. 

From  an  ordinary  man;  from  a  bad 
stomach,  bad  eyes,  and  bad  feet:  Kind 
Devil,  deliver  me. 

From  red  note-paper;  from  a  rhine- 
stone-studded  comb  in  my  hair;  from 
weddings:  Kind  Devil,  deliver  me. 

From  cod-fish  balls;   from  fried  egg 


1 86  THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

plant,  fried  beef-steak,  fried  pork- 
chops,  and  fried  French  toast:  Kind 
Devil,  deliver  me. 

From  wax  flowers  off  a  wedding- 
cake,  under  glass;  from  thin-soled 
shoes;  from  tape-worms;  from  photo 
graphs  perched,  up  all  over  my  house: 
Kind  Devil,  deliver  me. 

From  soft  old  bachelors  and  soft  old 
widowers;  from  any  masculine  thing 
that  wears  a  pale  blue  necktie;  from 
agonizing  elocutionists  who  recite 
"Curfew  Shall  Not  Ring  To-Night," 
and  "The  Lips  That  Touch  Liquor 
Shall  Never  Touch  Mine";  from  a 
Salvation  Army  singing  hymns  in 
slang:  Kind  Devil,  deliver  me. 

From  people  who  persist  in  calling 
my  good  body  "mere  tvile  clay";  from 
idiots  who  appear  to  know  all  about  me 
and  enjoin  me  not  to  bathe  my  eyes  in 
hot  water  since  it  hurts  their  own;  from 
fools  who  tell  me  what  I  "want"  to  do: 
Kind  Devil,  deliver  me. 

From   a  nice  young  man;    from  tin 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     187 

spoons;  from  popular  songs:  Kind 
Devil,  deliver  me. 

From  pleasant  old  ladies  who  tell  a 
great  many  uninteresting,  obvious  lies; 
from  men  with  watch-chains  draped 
across  their  middles;  from  some  paint 
ings  of  the  old  masters  which  I  am  un 
able  to  appreciate;  from  side-saddles: 
Kind  Devil,  deliver  me. 

From  the  kind  of  man  who  sings, 
"Oh,  Promise  Me!" — who  sings  at  it; 
from  constipated  'dressmakers;  from 
people  who  don't  wash  their  hair  often 
enough:  Kind  Devil,  deliver  me. 

From  a  servant  girl  with  false'teeth; 
from  persons  who  make  a  regular  prac 
tice  of  rubbing  oily  mixtures  into  their 
faces;  from  a  bed  that  sinks  in  the  mid 
dle:  Kind  Devil,  deliver  me. 

And  so  on  and  on  and  on.  And  in 
each  petition  I  am  deeply  sincere. 
But,  kind  Devil,  only  bring  me  Happi 
ness  and  I  will  more  than  willingly  be 
annoyed  by  all  these  things.  Happi 
ness  for  two  days,  kind  Devil,  and 


1 88    THE    STORY    OF   MARY    MAC  LANE 

then,  if  you  will,  languishing  widowers, 
lisle-thread  stockings  —  anything,  for 
the  rest  of  my  life. 

And  hurry,  kind   Devil,  pray — for  I 
am  weary. 


/IDarcb  9. 

IT  IS  astonishing  to  me  how  very 
many  contemptible,  petty  vanities 
are  lodged  in  the  crevices  of  my 
genius.  My  genius  itself  is  one  grand 
good  vanity — but  it  is  not  contemptible. 
And  even  those  little  vanities — though 
they  are  contemptible,  I  do  not  hold 
them  in  contempt  by  any  means.  I 
smile  involuntarily  at  their  absurdness 
sometimes,  but  I  know  well  that  they 
have  their  function. 

They  are  peculiarly  of  my  mind,  my 
humanness,  and  they  are  useful  therein. 
When  this  mind  stretches  out  its  hand 
for  things  and  finds  only  wilderness  and 
Nothingness  all  about  it,  and  draws  the 
hand  back  empty,  then  it  can  only  turn 
back — like  my  soul — to  itself.  And  it 
finds  these  innumerable  little  vanities  to 
quiet  it  and  help  it.  My  soul  has  no 
vanity,  and  it  has  nothing,  nothing  to 
quiet  it.  My  soul  is  wearing  itself  out, 
189 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

eating  itself  away.  These  vanities  are 
a  miserable  substitute  for  the  rose-col 
ored  treasures  that  it  sees  a  great  way 
off  and  even  imagines  in  its  folly  that 
it  may  have,  if  it  continues  to  reach 
after  them.  Yet  the  vanities  are  some 
thing.  They  prevent  my  erratic, 
analytical  mind  from  finding  a  great 
Nothing  when  it  turns  back  upon  itself. 

If  I  were  not  so  unceasingly  en 
grossed  with  my  sense  of  misery  and 
loneliness  my  mind  would  produce 
beautiful,  wonderful  logic.  I  am  a 
genius — a  genius — a  genius.  Even 
after  all  this  you  may  not  realize  that 
I  am  a  genius.  It  is  a  hard  thing  to 
show.  But,  for  myself,  I  feel  it.  It  is 
enough  for  me  that  I  feel  it. 

I  am  not  a  genius  because  I  am  for 
eign  to  everything  in  the  world,  nor 
because  I  am  intense,  nor  because  I 
suffer.  One  may  be  all  of  these  and 
yet  not  have  this  marvelous  perceptive 
sense.  My  genius  is  because  of  noth 
ing.  It  was  born  in  me  as  germs  of  evil 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     IQI 

were  born  in  me.  And  mine  is  a 
genius  that  has  been  given  to  no  one 
else.  The  genius  itself  enables  me  to 
be  thoroughly  convinced  of  this. 

It  is  hopeless,  never-ending  loneli 
ness! 

My  ancestors  in  their  Highlands — 
some  of  them — were  endowed  with 
second  sight.  My  genius  is  not  in  the 
least  like  second  sight.  That  savors  of 
the  supernatural,  the  mysterious.  My 
genius  is  a  sound,  sure,  earthly  sense, 
with  no  suggestion  of  mystery  or  oc 
cultism.  It  is  an  inner  sense  that  en 
ables  me  to  feel  and  know  things  that  I 
could  not  possibly  put  into  thought, 
much  less  into  words.  It  makes  me 
know  and  analyze  with  deadly  minute 
ness  every  keen,  tiny  damnation  in  my 
terrible  lonely  life.  It  is  a  mirror  that 
shows  me  myself  and  something  in  my 
self  in  a  merciless  brilliant  light,  and  the 
sight  at  once  sickens  and  maddens  me 
and  fills  me  with  an  unnamed  woe.  It 
is  something  unspeakably  dreadful. 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

The  sight  for  the  time  deadens  all 
thought  in  my  mind.  It  freezes  my 
reason  and  intellect.  Logic  can  not 
come  to  my  aid.  I  can  only  feel  and 
know  the  thing  and  it  analyzes  itself 
before  my  eyes. 

I  am  alone  with  this — alone,  alone, 
alone!  There  is  no  pitiful  hand  ex 
tended  from  the  heights — there  is  no 
human  being — ah,  there  is  Nothing. 

How  can  I  bear  it!  Oh,  I  ask  you— 
how  can  I  bear  it! 


M 


/IDarcb  10, 

Y  GENIUS  is  an  element  by  it 
self,  and  it  is  not  a  thing  that  I 
can  tell  in  so  many  words.  But 
it  makes  itself  felt  in  every  point  of  my 
life.  This  book  would  be  a  very  differ 
ent  thing  if  I  were  not  a  genius — 
though  I  am  not  a  literary  genius. 
Often  people  who  come  in  contact  with 
me  and  hear  me  utter  a  few  com 
monplace  remarks  feel  at  once  that  I 
am  extraordinary. 

I  am  extraordinary. 

I  have  tried  longingly,  passionately, 
to  think  that  even  this  sand  and  bar 
renness  is  mine.  But  I  can  not.  I 
know  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt 
that  it,  like  all  good  things,  is  beyond 
me.  It  has  something  that  I  also  have. 
In  that  is  our  bond  of  sympathy. 

But  the  sand  and  barrenness  itself  is 
not  mine. 

Always  I  think  there  is  but  one  pic- 
193 


194  THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

ture  in  the  world  more  perfect  in  its  art 
than  the  picture  of  me  in  my  sand 
and  barrenness.  It  is  the  picture  of 
the  Christ  crucified  with  two  thieves. 
Nothing  could  be  more  divinely  appro 
priate.  The  art  in  it  is  ravishingly  perfect. 
It  is  one  of  the  few  perfect  pictures  set 
before  the  world^for  all  time.  As  I  see 
it  before  my  mind,!  can  think  only  of  its 
utter  perfectness.  I  can  summon  no 
feeling  of  grief  at  the  deed.  The  deed 
and  the  art  are  perfect.  Its  perfectness 
ravishes  my  senses. 

And  within  me  I; feel  that  the  picture 
of  me  in  my  sand  and  barrenness — 
knowing  that  even  the  sand  and  bar 
renness  is  not  mine — is  only  second  to 
it. 


/IDarcb  U. 

SOMETIMES  when  I  go  out  on 
the  barrenness  my  mind  wanders 
afar. 

To-day  it  went  to  Greece. 

Oh,  it  was  very  beautiful  in  Greece! 

There  was  a  wide,  long  sky  that  was 
vividly,  wonderfully  blue.  And  there 
was  a  limitless  sea  that  was  gray  and 
green.  And  it  went  far  to  the  south. 
The  sky  and  the  sea  spread  out  into 
the  vast  world — two  beautiful  elements, 
and  they  fell  in  love  with  each  other. 
And  the  farther  away  they  were  the 
nearer  they  moved  together  until  at 
last  they  met  and  clasped  each  other 
in  the  far  distance.  There  were  tall, 
dark-green  trees  of  kinds  that  are  seen 
only  in  Greece.  They  murmured  and 
whispered  in  the  stillness.  The  wind 
came  off  from  the  sea  and  went  over 
them  and  around  them.  They  quivered 
and  trembled  in  shy,  ecstatic  joy — for 
195 


IQ6    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

the  wind  was  their  best-beloved.  There 
were  banks  of  moss  of  a  deep  emerald 
color,  and  golden  flowers  that  drooped 
their  heavy  sensual  heads  over  to  the 
damp  black  earth.  And  they  also 
loved  each  other,  and  were  with  each 
other,  and  were  glad.  Clouds  hung 
low  over  the  sea  and  were  dark -gray 
and  heavy  with  rain.  But  the  sun 
shone  from  behind  them  at  intervals 
with  beams  of  bronze  -  and  -  copper. 
Three  white  rocks  rose  up  out  of  the 
sea,  and  the  bronze-and-copper  beams 
fell  upon  them,  and  straightway  they 
were  of  gold. 

Oh,  how  beautiful  were  those  three 
gold  rocks  that  came  up  out  of  the  sea! 

Aphrodite  once  came  up  out  of  this 
same  sea.  She  came  gleaming,  with 
golden  hair  and  beautiful  eyes.  Her 
skin  glowed  with  tints  of  carmine  and 
wild  rose.  Her  white  feet  touched  the 
smooth,  yellow  sand  on  the  shore.  The 
white  feet  of  Aphrodite  on  the  yellow 
sand  made  a  picture  of  marvelous 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     1 97 

beauty.  She  was  flushed  in  the  joy  of 
new  life. 

But  the  bronze-and-copper  sunshine 
on  the  three  white  rocks  was  more 
beautiful  than  Aphrodite. 

I  stood  on  the  shore  and  looked  at 
the  rocks.  My  heart  contracted  with 
the  pain  that  beautiful  things  bring. 

The  bronze-and-copper  in  the  wide 
gray  and  green  sea! 

"This  is  the  gateway  of  Heaven,"  I 
said  to  myself.  "Behind  those  three 
gold  rocks  there  is  music  and  the  high 
notes  of  happy  voices."  My  soul  grew 
faint.  "And  there  is  no  sand  and  bar 
renness  there,  and  no  Nothingness,  and 
no  bitterness,  and  no  hot,  blinding 
tears.  And  there  are  no  little  heart- 
weary  children,  and  no  lonely  young 
women — oh,  there  is  no  loneliness  at 
all!"  My  soul  grew  more  and  more 
faint  with  thinking  of  it.  "And  there 
is  no  heart  there  but  that  is  pure  and 
joyous  and  in  Peace — in  long,  still, 
eternal  Peace.  And  every  life  comes 


198    THE    STORY  OF   MARY    MAC  LANE 

there  to  its  own;  and  every  earth-cry  is 
answered,  and  every  earth  -  pain  is 
ended;  and  the  dark  spirit  of  Sorrow 
that  hangs  always  over  the  earth  is 
gone — gone, — beyond  the  gateway  of 
Heaven.  And  more  than  all,  Love  is 
there  and  walks  among  the  dwellers. 
Love  is  a  shining  figure  with  radiant 
hands,  and  it  touches  them  all  with  its 
hands  so  that  never-dying  love  enters 
into  their  hearts.  And  the  love  of  each 
for  another  is  like  the  love  of  each  for 
self.  And  here  at  last  is  Truth.  There 
is  searching  and  searching  over  the 
earth  after  Truth — and  who  has  found 
it?  But  here  is  it  beyond  the  gateway 
of  Heaven.  Those  who  enter  in  know 
that  it  is  Truth  at  last." 

And  so  Peace  and  Love  and  Truth 
are  there  behind  the  three  gold  rocks. 

And  then  my  soul  could  no  longer 
endure  the  thought  of  it. 

Suddenly  the  sun  passed  behind  a 
heavy,  dark -gray  cloud,  and  the  bronze- 
and-copper  faded  from  the  three  rocks 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     199 

and  left  them  white — very  white  in  the 
wide  water. 

The  yellow  flowers  laid  their  heads 
drowsily  down  on  the  emerald  moss. 
The  wind  from  off  the  sea  played  very 
gently  among  the  motionless  branches 
of  the  tall  trees.  The  blue,  blue  sky 
and  the  wide,  gray-green  sea  clasped 
each  other  more  closely  and  mingled 
with  each  other  and  became  one  vague, 
shadowy  element — and  from  it  all  I 
brought  my  eyes  back  thousands  of 
leagues  to  my  sand  and  barrenness. 

The  sand  and  barrenness  is  itself  an 
element,  and  I  have  known  it  a  long, 
long  time. 


/IDarcb  12. 

EVERYTHING    is    so    dreary— so 
dreary. 

I  feel  as  if  I  would  like  to  die 
to-day.  I  should  not  be  the  tiniest  bit 
less  unhappy  afterward — but  this  life  is 
unutterably  weary.  I  am  not  strong. 
I  can  not  bear  things.  I  do  not  want  to 
bear  things.  I  do  not  long  for  strength. 
I  want  to  be  happy. 

When  I  was  very  little,  it  was  cold 
and  dreary  also,  but  I  was  certain  it 
would  be  different  when  I  should  grow 
and  be  ten  years  old.  It  must  be  very 
nice  to  be  ten,  I  thought, — and  one 
would  not  be  nearly  so  lonesome.  But 
when  the  years  passed  and  I  was  ten  it 
was  just  exactly  as  lonesome.  And 
when  I  was  ten  everything  was  very 
hard  to  understand. 

But  it  will  surely  be  different  when  I 
am  seventeen,  I  said.  I  will  know  so 
much  when  I  am  seventeen.  But  when 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     2OI 

I  was  seventeen  it  was  even  more 
lonely,  and  everything  was  still  harder 
to  understand. 

And  again  I  said — faintly — everything 
will  become  clearer  in  a  few  years 
more,  and  I  will  wonder  to  think  how 
stupid  I  have  always  been.  But  now 
the  few  years  more  have  gone  and  here 
I  am  in  loneliness  that  is  more  hope 
less  and  harder  to  bear  than  when  I 
was  very  little.  Still,  I  wonder  indeed 
to  think  how  stupid  I  have  been — and 
now  I  am  not  so  stupid.  I  do  not  tell 
myself  that  it  will  be  different  when  I 
am  five-and-twenty. 

For  I  know  that  it  will  not  be  different. 

I  know  that  it  will  be  the  same  dreari 
ness,  the  same  Nothingness,  the  same 
loneliness. 

It  is  very,  very  lonely. 

It  is  hope  deferred  and  maketh  the 
heart  sick. 

It  is  more  than  I  can  bear. 

Why — why  was  I  ever  born! 

I  can  not  live,  and  I  can  not  die — for 


2O2    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

what  is  there  after  I  am  dead?  I  can 
see  myself  wandering  in  dark  and 
lonely  places. 

Yet  I  feel  as  if  I  would  like  to  die  to 
day. 


/iDarcb  13. 

IF  IT  were  pain  alone  that  one  must 
bear,  one  could  bear  it.     One  could 
lose  one's  sense  of  everything  but 
pain. 

But  it  is  pain  with  other  things.  It  is 
the  sense  of  pain  with  the  sense  of 
beauty  and  the  sense  of  the  anemone. 
And  there  is  that  mysterious  pain. 

Who  knows  the  name  of  .that  myste 
rious  pain? 

It  is  these  mingled  senses  that  tor 
ture  me. 


203 


/IDarcb  14. 

I  HAVE    been  placed  in  this  world 
with  eyes  to  see  and  ears  to  hear, 
and  I  ask  for  Life.     Is  it  to  be  won 
dered  at?    Is  it  so  strange?    Should  I 
be  content  merely  to  see  and  to  hear? 
There     are     other     things    for    other 
people.     Is  it  atrocious  that  I   should 
ask  for  some  other  things  also? 
Is  thy  servant  a  dog? 


204 


flDarcb  15* 

IN     THESE    days    of    approaching 
emotional    Nature  even    the  sand 
and  barrenness  begins  to  stir  and 
rub  its  eyes. 

My  sand  and  barrenness  is  clothed  in 
the  awful  majesty  of  countless  ages. 
It  stands  always  through  the  never- 
ending  march  of  the  living  and  the 
dead.  It  may  have  been  green  once — 
green  and  fertile,  and  birds  and  snakes 
and  everything  that  loves  green  grow 
ing  things  may  have  lived  in  it.  It  may 
have  sometime  been  rolling  prairie.  It 
may  have  been  submerged  in  floods.  It 
changed  and  changed  in  the  centuries. 
Now  it  is  sand  and  barrenness,  and 
there  are  no  birds  and  no  snakes;  only 
me.  But  whatever  change  came  to  it, 
whatever  its  transfiguration,  the  spirit 
of  it  never  moved.  Flood,  or  fertility, 

or  rolling  prairie,  or  barrenness — it  is 

205 


2C>6    THE    STORY   OF   MARY    MAC  LANE 

only  itself.  It  has  a  great  self,  a  won 
derful  self. 

I  shall  never  forget  you,  my  sand  and 
barrenness. 

Some  day,  shall  my  thirsty  life  be 
watered,  my  starved  heart  fed,  my  ask 
ing  voice  answered,  my  tired  soul  taken 
into  the  warmth  of  another  with  the 
intoxicating  sweetness  of  love? 

It  may  be. 

But  I  shall  remember  the  sand  and 
barrenness  that  is  with  me  in  my  Noth 
ingness.  The  sand  and  barrenness  and 
the  memory  of  the  anemone  lady  are 
all  that  are  in  any  degree  mine.^ 

And  so  then  I  shall  remember  it. 

As  I  stand  among  the  barren  gulches 
in  these  days  and  look  away  at  the 
slow-awakening  hills  of  Montana,  I  hear 
the  high,  swelling,  half-tired,  half-hope 
ful  song  of  the  world.  As  I  listen  I 
know  that  there  are  things,  other  than 
the  Virtue  and  the  Truth  and  the 
Love,  that  are  not  for  me.  There  is 
beyond  me,  like  these,  the  unbreaking, 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     2O7 

undying  bond  of  human  fellowship — a 
thing  that  is  earth-old. 

It  is  beyond  me,  and  it  is  nothing  to 
me. 

In  my  intensest  desires — in  my  widest 
longings — I  never  go  beyond  self.  The 
ego  is  the  all. 

Limitless  legions  of  women  and  men 
in  weariness  and  in  joy  are  one.  They 
are  killing  each  other  and  torturing 
each  other,  and  going  down  in  sorrow 
to  the  dust.  But  they  are  one.  Their 
right  hands  are  joined  in  unseen  sym 
pathy  and  kinship. 

But  my  two  hands  are  apart,  and 
clasped  together  in  an  agony  of  loneli 
ness. 

I  have  read  of  women  who  have  been 
strongly,  grandly  brave.  Sometimes  I 
have  dreamed  that  I  might  be  brave. 
The  possibilities  of  this  life  are  magnifi 
cent. 

To  be  saturated  with  this  agony,  I 
say  at  times,  and  to  bear  with  it  all; 
not  to  sink  beneath  it,  but  to  vanquish 


2OS    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

it,  and  to  make  it  the  grace  and  comeli 
ness  of  my  entire  life  from  the  Begin 
ning  to  the  End! 

Perhaps  a  woman — a  real  woman — 
could  do  this. 

But  I? — No.  I  am  not  real — I  do  not 
seem  real  to  myself.  In  such  things  as 
these  my  life  is  a  blank. 

There  was  Charlotte  Corday  —  a 
heroine  whom  I  admire  above  all  the 
heroines.  And  more  than  she  was  a 
heroine  she  was  a  woman.  And  she 
had  her  agony.  It  was  for  love  of  her 
fair  country. 

To  suffer  and  do  and  die  for  love  of 
something!  It  is  glorious!  What  must 
be  the  exalted  ecstasy  of  Charlotte 
Corday's  soul  now! 

And  I — with  all  my  manifold  pas 
sions — I  am  a  coward. 

I  have  had  moments  when,  vaguely 
and  from  far  off,  it  seemed  as  if  there 
might  be  bravery  and  exaltation  for 
me, — when  I  could  rise  far  over  myself. 
I  have  felt  unspeakable  possibilities. 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE    2OQ 

While  they  lasted  —  what  wonderful 
emotion  was  it  that  I  felt? 

But  they  are  not  real. 

They  fade  away — they  fade  away. 

And  again  come  the  varied  phe 
nomena  of  my  life  to  bewilder  and  ter 
rify  me. 

Confusion!  Chaos!  Damnation! 
They  are  not  moments  of  exaltation 
now.  Poor  little  Mary  Mac  Lane! 

"If  to  do  were  as  easy  as  to  know 
what  were  good  to  do,  chapels  had  been 
churches,  and  poor  men's  cottages 
princes'  palaces." 

I  do  not  know  what  to  do. 

I  do  not  know  what  were  good  to  do. 

I  would  do  nothing  if  I  knew. 

I  might  add  to  my  litany  this:  Most 
kind  Devil,  deliver  me — from  myself. 


/iDarcb  16. 

TO-DAY  I  walked  over  the  sand, 
and  it  was  almost  beautiful. 
The  sun  was  sinking  and  the  sky 
was  filled  with  roses  and  gold. 

Then  came  my  soul  and  confronted 
me.  My  soul  is  wondrous  fair.  It  is 
like  a  young  woman.  The  beauty  of  it 
is  too  great  for  human  eyes  to  look 
upon.  It  is  too  great  for  mine.  Yet  I 
look. 

My  soul  said  to  me:  "I  am  sick." 

I  answered:  "And  I  am  sick." 

"We  may  be  well,"  said  my  soul. 
"Why  are  we  not  well?" 

"How  may  we  be  well?"  I  asked. 

"We  may  throw  away  all  our  vanity 
and  false  pride,"  said  my  soul.  "We 
way  take  on  a  new  life.  We  may  learn 
to  wait  and  to  possess  ourselves  in 
patience.  We  may  labor  and  over 
come." 

"We  can  do  none  of  these  things,"  I 


THE    STORY  OF    MARY    MAC  LANE    211 

cried.  "Have  I  not  tried  all  of  them 
some  time  in  my  short  life?  And  have 
I  not  waited  and  wanted  until  you  have 
become  faint  with  pain?  Have  I  not 
looked  and  longed?  Dear  soul,  why 
do  you  not  resign  yourself?  Why  can 
you  not  stay  quiet  and  trouble  yourself 
and  me  no  more?  Why  are  you  always 
straining  and  reaching?  There  isn't 
anything  for  you.  You  are  wearing 
yourself  out." 

My  soul  made  answer:  "I  may  strain 
and  reach  until  only  one  worn  nerve  of 
me  is  left.  And  that  one  nerve  may 
be  scourged  with  whips  and  burned  with 
fire.  But  I  will  keep  one  atom  of  faith. 
I  may  go  bad,  but  I  will  keep  one  atom 
of  faith  in  Love  and  in  the  Truth  that  is 
Love.  You  are  a  genius,  but  I  am  no 
genius.  The  years — a  million  of  years — 
may  do  their  utmost  to  destroy  the 
single  nerve.  They  may  lash  and  beat 
it.  I  will  keep  my  one  atom  of  faith. 

"You  are  not  wise,"  I  said.  "You 
have  been  wandering  and  longing  for  a 


212     THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

time  that  seems  a  thousand  years — 
through  my  cold,  dark  childhood  to  my 
cold,  dark  womanhood.  Is  that  not 
enough  to  quiet  you?  Is  that  not 
enough  to  teach  you  the  lesson  of 
Nothing?  You  are  not  a  genius,  but 
you  are  not  a  fool." 

"I  will  keep  my  one  atom  of  faith," 
said  my  soul. 

"But  lie  and  sleep  now,"  I  said. 
"Don't  reach  after  that  Light  any  more. 
Let  us  both  sleep  a  few  years." 

"No,"  said  my  soul. 

"Oh,  my  soul,"  I  wailed,  "look  away 
at  that  glowing  copper  horizon — and 
beyond  it.  Let  us  go  there  now  and 
take  an  infinite  rest.  Now!  We  can 
bear  this  no  longer." 

"No,"  said  my  soul;  "we  will  stay 
here  and  bear  more.  There  would  be 
no  rest  yet  beyond  the  copper  horizon. 
And  there  is  no  need  of  going  any 
where.  I  have  my  one  atom  of  faith." 

I  gazed  at  my  soul  as  it  stood  plainly 
before  me,  weak  and  worn  and  faint,  in 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE    213 

the  fading  light.  It  had  one  atom  of 
faith,  it  said,  and  tried  to  hold  its  head 
high  and  to  look  strong  and  trium 
phant.  Oh,  the  irony — the  pathos  of  it! 
My  soul,  with  its  one  pitiful  atom  of 
faith,  looked  only  what  it  was — a  weep 
ing,  hunted  thing. 


flDarcb  17. 

IN  SOME  rare  between-whiles  it  is 
as  if  nothing  mattered.  My  heart 
aches,  I  say;  my  soul  wanders;  this 
person  or  that  person  was  repelled  to 
day;  but  nothing  matters. 

A  great  inner  languor  comes  like  a 
giant  and  lays  hold  of  me.  I  lie  fallow 
beneath  it. 

Some  one  forgot  me  in  the  giving  of 
things.  But  it  does  not  matter.  I  feel 
nothing. 

Persons  say  to  me,  don't  analyze  any 
more  and  you  will  not  be  unhappy. 

When  Something  throws  heavy  clubs 
at  you  and  you  are  hit  by  them,  don't 
be  hurt.  When  Something  stronger 
than  you  holds  your  hands  in  the  fire, 
don't  let  it  burn  you.  When  Some 
thing  pushes  you  into  a  river  of  ice, 
don't  be  cold.  When  something  draws 

a  cutting  lash  across  your  naked  shoul- 
214 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     215 

ders,  don't  let  it  concern  you — don't  be 
conscious  that  it  is  there. 

This  is  great  wisdom  and  fine,  clear 
logic. 

It  is  a  pity  that  no  one  has  ever  yet 
been  able  to  live  by  it. 

But  after  all  it's  no  matter.  Nothing 
is  any  one's  affair.  It  is  all  of  no  con 
sequence. 

And  have  I  not  had  all  my  anguish 
for  nothing?  I  am  a  fool — a  fool. 

A  handful  of  rich  black  mud  in  a 
pig's  yard — does  it  wonder  why  it  is 
there?  Does  it  torture  itself  about  the 
other  mud  around  it,  and  about  the 
earth  and  water  of  which  it  is  made, 
and  about  the  pig?  Only  fool's  mud 
would  do  so.  And][so,  then,  I  am  fool's 
mud. 

Nothing  counts.  Nothing  can  pos 
sibly  count. 

Regret,  passion,  cowardice,  hope, 
bravery,  unrest,  pain,  the  love-sense,  the 
soul-sense,  the  beauty-sense  —  all  for 
nothing!  What  can  a  handful  of  rich 


2l6    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

black  mud  in  a  pig's  yard  have  to  do 
with  these?  I  am  a  handful  of  rich 
black  mud — a  fool-woman,  fool's  mud. 

All  on  earth  that  I  need  to  do  is  to  lie 
still  in  the  hot  sun  and  feel  the  pig  roll 
ing  and  floundering  and  slushing  about. 
It  were  folly  to  waste  my  mud  nerves  in 
wondering.  Be  quiet,  fool-woman,  let 
things  be.  Your  soul  is  a  fool's-mud 
soul  and  is  governed  by  the  pig;  your 
heart  is  a  fool's-mud  heart,  and  wants 
nothing  beyond  the  pig;  your  life  is  a 
fool's-mud  life,  and  is  the  pig's  life. 

Something  within  me  shrieks  now, 
but  I  do  not  know  what  it  is — nor  why 
it  shrieks. 

It  groans  and  moans. 

There  is  no  satisfaction  in  being  a 
fool — no  satisfaction  at  all. 


flDarcb  18. 

BUT  yes.  It  all  matters,  whether  or 
no.  Nature  is  one  long  battle, 
and  the  never-ending  perishing  cf 
the  weak.  I  must  grind  and  grind 
away.  I  have  no  choice.  And  I  must 
know  that  I  grind. 

Fool,  genius,  young  lonely  woman — I 
must  go  round  and  round  in  the  life 
within,  for  how  many  years  the  Devil 
knows.  After  that  my  soul  must  go 
round  and  round,  for  how  many  cen 
turies  the  Devil  knows. 

What  a  master-mind  is  that  of  the 
Devil!  The  world  is  a  wondrous 
scheme.  For  me  it  is  a  scheme  that  is 
black  with  woe.  But  there  may  be  in 
the  world  some  one  who  finds  it  beauti 
ful  Real  Life. 

I  wonder  as  I  write  this  Portrayal  if 
there  will  be  one  person  to  read  it  and 
see  a  thing  that  is  mingled  with  every 
217 


2l8    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

word.  It  is  something  that  you  must 
feel,  that  must  fascinate  you,  the  like 
of  which  you  have  never  before  met 
with. 

It  is  the  unparalleled  individuality  of 
me. 

I  wish  I  might  write  it  in  so  many 
words  of  English.  But  that  is  not  pos 
sible.  If  I  have  put  it  in  every  word 
and  if  you  feel  it  and  are  fascinated, 
then  I  have  done  very  well. 

I  am  marvelously  clever  if  I  have 
done  so. 

I  know  that  I  am  marvelously  clever. 
But  I  have  need  of  all  my  peculiar 
genius  to  show  you  my  individuality — 
my  aloneness. 

I  am  alone  out  on  my  sand  and  bar 
renness.  I  should  be  alone  if  my  sand 
and  barrenness  were  crowded  with  a 
thousand  people  each  filled  with  melt 
ing  sympathy  for  me — though  it  would 
be  unspeakably  sweet. 

People  say  of  me,  "She's  peculiar." 
They  do  not  understand  me.  If  they 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     2IQ 

did  they  would  say  so  oftener  and  with 
emphasis. 

And  so  I  try  to  put  my  individuality 
in  the  quality  of  my  diction,  in  my 
method  of  handling  words. 

My  conversation  plainly  shows  this 
individuality  —  more  than  shows  it, 
indeed.  My  conversation  hurls  it  vio 
lently  at  people's  heads.  My  conversa 
tion — when  I  choose — makes  people 
turn  around  in  their  chairs  and  stare 
and  givei  me  all  of  their  attention. 
They  admire  me,  though  their  admira 
tion  is  mixed  decidedly  with  other  feel 
ings. 

I  like  to  be  admired. 

It  soothes  my  vanity. 

When  you  read  this  Portrayal  you 
will  admire  me.  You  will  surely  have 
to  admire  me. 

And  so  this  is  life,  and  everything 
matters. 

But  just  now  I  will  stop  writing  and 
go  downstairs  to  my  dinner.  There  is 
a  porterhouse  steak,  broiled  rare,  and 


22O    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

some  green  young  onions.  Oh,  they 
are  good!  And  when  one  is  to  have  a 
porterhouse  steak  for  one's  dinner — 
and  some  green  young  onions,  one 
doesn't  give  a  tupenny  dam  whether 
anything  else  matters  or  not. 


/BDarcb  19. 

ON  A  day  when  the  sky  is  like  lead 
and  a  dull,  tempestuous  wilder 
ness  of  gray  clouds  adds  a  dreari 
ness  to  the  sand,  there  is  added  to  the 
loneliness  of  my  life  a  deep  bitterness 
of  gall  and  wormwood. 

Out  of  my  bitterness  it  is  easy  for  bad 
to  come. 

Surely  Badness  is  a  deep  black  pool 
wherein  one  may  drown  dullness  and 
Nothingness. 

I  do  not  know  Badness  well.  It  is 
something  material  that  seems  a  great 
way  off  now,  but  that  might  creep 
nearer  and  nearer  as  I  became  less  and 
less  young. 

But  now  when  the  day  is  of  the 
leaden  dullness  I  look  at  Badness  and 
long  for  it.  I  am  young  and  all  alone, 
and  everything  that  is  good  is  beyond 
my  reach.  But  all  that  is  bad — surely 
that  is  within  the  reach  of  every  one. 


221 


222     THE   STORY    OF   MARY   MAC  LANE 

I  wish  for  a  long  pageant  of  bad 
things  to  come  and  whirl  and  rage 
through  this  strange  leaden  life  of  mine 
and  break  the  spell. 

Why  should  it  not  be  Badness  instead 
of  Death?  Death,  it  seems,  will  bring 
me  but  a  change  of  agony.  Badness 
would  perhaps  so  crowd  my  life  with 
its  vivid  phenomena  that  they  would 
act  as  a  neurotic  to  the  racked  nerves 
of  my  Nothingness.  It  would  be  an 
outlet — and  possibly  I  could  forget 
some  things. 

I  think  just  now  of  a  woman  who 
lived  long  ago  and  in  whom  the  world 
at  large  seems  not  to  have  found  any 
thing  admirable.  I  mean  Messalina 
Valeria,  the  wife  of  the  stupid  emperor 
Claudius.  I  have  conceived  a  pro 
found  admiration  for  this  historic  wan 
ton.  She  may  not  indeed  have  had 
anything  to  forget;  she  may  not  have 
suffered.  But  she  had  the  strength  of 
will  to  take  what  she  wanted,  to  do  as 
she  liked,  to  live  as  she  chose  to  live. 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE   22^ 

It  is  admirable  and  beautiful  beyond 
expression  to  sacrifice  and  give  up  and 
wait  for  love  of  that  good  that  gives  in 
itself  a  just  reward.  And  only  next  to 
this  is  the  throwing  to  the  winds  of  all 
restraint  when  the  good  holds  itself 
aloof  and  gives  nothing.  We  are  weak, 
contemptible  fools  who  do  not  grasp 
the  resources  within  our  reach  when 
there  is  no  just  reward  for  our  re 
straint.  Why  do  we  not  take  what  we 
want  of  the  various  temptations?  It  is 
not  that  we  are  virtuous.  It  is  that  we 
are  cowards. 

And  it  is  worth  while  to  remain  true 
to  an  ideal  that  offers  only  the  vaguest 
hopes  of  realization?  It  is  not  philos 
ophy.  When  one  has  made  up  one's 
mind  that  one  wants  a  dish  of  hot 
stewed  mushrooms,  and  set  one's  heart 
on  it,  should  one  scorn  a  handful  of  raw 
evaporated  apples,  if  one  were  starving, 
for  the  sake  of  the  phantom  dish  of  hot 
stewed  mushrooms?  Should  one  say, 
Let  me  starve,  but  I  will  never  descend 


224    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

to  evaporated  apples;  I  will  have  noth 
ing  but  a  dish  of  hot  stewed  mushrooms? 
If  one  is  sure  one  will  have  the  stewed 
mushrooms  finally,  before  one  dies  of 
starvation,  then  very  well.  One  should 
wait  for  them  and  take  nothing  else. 

But  it  is  not  in  my  good  peripatetic 
philosophy  to  pass  by  the  Badness  that 
the  gods  provide  for  the  sake  of  a  far 
away,  always-unrealized  ideal,  however 
brilliant,  however  beautiful,  however 
golden. 

When  the  lead  is  in  the  sky  and  in 
my  life,  a  vision  of  Badness  looms  up 
on  the  horizon  and  looks  at  me  and 
beckons  with  a  fascinating  finger. 
Then  I  say  to  myself,  What  is  the  use 
of  this  unsullied,  struggling  soul;  this 
unbesmirched,  empty  heart;  this  treas- 
ureless,  innocent  mind;  this  insipid 
maid's-body?  There  are  no  good  things 
for  them.  But  here,  to  be  sure,  are 
fascinating,  glittering  bad  things — the 
goods  that  the  gods  provide,  the  com 
pensation  of  the  Devil. 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     22$ 

Comes  Death,  some  day,  I  said — but 
to  die,  in  the  sight  of  glittering  bad 
things — and  I  only  nineteen!  These 
glittering  things  appear  fair. 

There  is  really  nothing  evil  in  the 
world.  Some  things  appear  distorted 
and  unnatural  because  they  have  been 
badly  done.  Had  they  been  perfect  in 
conception  and  execution  they  would 
strike  one  only  with  admiration  at  their 
fine,  iridescent  lights.  You  remember 
Don  Juan  and  Haidee.  That,  to  be 
sure,  was  not  evil  in  any  event — they 
loved  each  other.  But  if  they  had  had 
only  a  passing,  if  intense,  fancy  for  one 
another,  who  would  call  it  evil?  Who 
would  call  it  anything  but  wonderful, 
charming,  enchanting?  The  Devil's 
bad  things — like  the  Devil's  good 
things — may  gleam  and  glisten,  oh,  how 
they  may  gleam  and  glisten!  I  have 
seen  them  do  so,  not  only  in  a  poem  of 
Byron's,  but  in  the  life  that  is. 

Always  when  the  lead  is  in  the  sky  I 
would  like  to  cultivate  thoroughly  this 


226    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

branch  of  the  vineyard.  Now  doesn't 
it  make  you  shiver  to  think  of  this  dear 
little  Mary  Mac  Lane  wandering  un 
loved  through  dark  by-ways  and  deadly 
labyrinths?  It  makes  me  shiver.  But 
it  needn't.  If  I  am  to  wander  unloved, 
why  not  as  well  wander  there  as  through 
Nothingness? 

I  fancy  it  must  be  wonderfully  easy  to 
become)  used  to  the  many-sided  Bad 
ness.  I  have  lived  my  nineteen  years 
in  the'midst  of  Nothingness,  and  I  have 
not  yet  become  used  to  it.  It  has  sharp 
knives  in  it,  has  Nothingness.  Badness 
may  have  some  [sharp  knives  also — but 
there  are  other  things.  Yes,  there  are 
other  things. 

Kind  Devil,  if  you  are  not  to  fetch 
me  Happiness,  then  slip  off  from  your 
great  steel  key-ring  a  bright  little  key 
to  the  door  of  the  glittering,  gleaming 
bad  things,  and  give  it  me,  and  show 
me  the  way,  and  wish  me  joy. 

I  would  like  to  live  about  seven  years 
of  judicious  Badness,  and  then  Death, 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     227 

if  you  will.  Nineteen  years  of  damn 
able  Nothingness,  seven  years  of  judi 
cious  Badness — and  then  Death.  A 
noble  ambition!  But  might  it  not  be 
worse?  If  not  that,  then  nineteen 
years  of  damnable  Nothingness,  and 
then  Death.  No;  when  the  lead  is  in 
the  sky  that  does  not  appeal  to  me. 
My  versatile  mind  turns  to  the  seven 
years  of  judicious  Badness. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  world  with 
out  its  element  of  Badness.  It  is  in 
literature;  it  is  in  every  art — in  pic 
tures,  sculpture,  even  in  music.  There 
are  certain  fine,  deep,  minute  passages 
in  Beethoven  and  in  Chopin  that  tell  of 
things  wonderfully,  sublimely  bad. 
Chopin  one  can  not  understand.  Is 
there  any  one  in  the  world  who  can 
understand  him?  But  we  know  at  once 
that  there  is  the  Badness — and  it  is 
music! 

There  is  the  element  of  Badness  in 
me. 

I   long   to   cultivate   my   element   of 


228    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

Badness.  Badness  compared  to  Noth 
ingness  is  beautiful.  And  so,  then,  I 
wait  also  for  some  one  to  come  over 
the  hill  with  things  other  than  Happi 
ness.  But  whatever  I  wait  for,  nothing 
comes. 


jflDarcb  20. 

THERE    were   pictures  in  the  red 
sunset  sky  to-day.     I  looked  at 
them  and  was  racked  with  pas 
sions  of  desire.      I   fancied  to   myself 
that   I    could    have   any  of    the   good 
things  in    the  pictures  for  the  asking 
and  the  waiting.      The   while   I   knew 
that  when  the  sunset  should  fade  from 
the  sky  I   would  be   overwhelmed  by 
my  heaviest  woe. 

There  was  a  picture  of  intense  peace. 
There  were  stretches  of  flat,  green 
country,  and  oak-trees  and  aspens,  and 
a  still,  still  lake.  In  the  dim  distance 
you  could  see  fields  of  wheat  and 
timothy-grass  that  moved  a  little  as  if 
in  the  wind.  You  could  fancy  the  cows 
feeding  just  below  the  brow  of  the  near 
hills,  and  a  hawk  floating  and  wheeling 
among  the  clouds.  A  rainbow  arched 
over  the  lake.  There  is  nothing  lack 
ing  here,  I  thought.  "Life  and  health 
229 


230  THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

and  peace  possessing."  Give  me  this, 
kind  Devil. 

There  was  a  picture  of  endless,  limit 
less  strength.  There  were  the  oak- 
trees  again  but  bereft  now  of  every 
leaf,  and  the  bristling,  jagged  rocks 
back  of  them  were  not  more  coldly 
staunch.  The  sun  poured  brilliantly 
bright  upon  them.  A  river  flowed  un 
moved  and  quiet  between  yellow  clay 
banks.  A  tornado  might  sweep  over 
this  and  not  one  twig  would  be  dis 
placed,  not  one  ripple  would  come  to 
the  river.  Is  it  not  fine!  I  said  to  my 
self.  No  feeling,  no  self-analysis,  no 
aching,  no  pain — and  the  strength  of 
the  Philistines.  Oh,  kind  Devil,  I  en 
treat  you,  let  me  have  that! 

There  was  a  picture  of  untrammeled 
revel  and  forgetfulness.  There  were 
fields  of  swaying  daffodils  and  red  lilies. 
The  young  shrubs  tossed  their  heads 
and  were  joyous.  Lambs  gamboled 
and  the  happy  meadow -lark  knew 
whereof  she  sang. 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     231 

"The  winds  with  wonder  whist 
Smoothly  the  waters  kissed." 

Be  carefree,  be  light-hearted,  be 
wicked — above  all,  forget.  The  deeds 
are  what  you  will;  the  time  is  now;  the 
aftermath  is  nothing;  the  day  of  reck 
oning  is  never.  Love  things  lightly, 
take  all  that  you  see,  and  to  the  winds 
with  regret!  Gracious  Devil,  I  whis 
pered  intensely,  give  me  this  and  no 
other! 

There  was  a  picture  of  raging  ele 
ments.  "The  winds  blew,  and  the  rains 
descended  and  the  floods  came."  The 
sky  was  overcast  with  rolling  clouds. 
The  air  was  heavy  with  unrest.  There 
was  a  gray  stone  house  set  upon  a 
rocky  point,  and  I  had  momentary 
glimpses  of  an  unquiet  sea  below  it. 
Back  on  the  surface  of  the  land  slender 
trees  were  waving  wildly  in  the  gale. 
The  wind  and  the  rain  were  saying, 
"Damn  you,  little  earth,  I  have  you 
now, — I  will  rend  and  ruin  you."  They 
whipped  and  raged  in  frenzied  joy. 


232    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

The  little  earth  liked  it.  The  elements 
whirled  and  whistled  round  the  gray 
stone  house.  A  lurid  light  came  from 
a  ghastly  moon  between  clouds.  The. 
entire  scene  was  desolately  savage  and 
forlorn,  but  attractive.  As  I  listened 
in  fancy  to  that  shrieking,  wailing  wind, 
and  saw  green  branches  jerked  and 
twisted  asunder  in  the  storm,  my  bar 
ren,  defrauded  heart  leaped  and  ex 
ulted.  If  I  could  live  in  the  midst  of 
this  and  be  beaten  and  shaken 
roughly,  would  not  that  deep  sense  for 
get  to  ache?  Kind  Devil,  pray  send  me 
some  storms.  It  is  Nothingness  that 
bears  down  heavy. 

There  was  a  picture  of  an  exalted 
spiritual  life.  There  was  that  strange 
bright  light.  And  the  things  in  the 
picture  were  those  things  alone  in  this 
world  that  are  real,  and  the  only  things 
that  count.  The  old,  soft  green  of  the 
old,  old  rolling  hills  was  the  green  of 
love — the  earth-love  and  the  love  that 
comes  from  beyond  the  earth.  The  air 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     233 

and  the  blue  water  and  the  sunshine 
were  so  beautifully  real  and  true  that 
except  for  their  deep-reaching,  passion 
ate  tenderness  human  strength  could 
not  endure  them.  There  were  lanes  of 
climbing  vines  and  white  violets.  Was 
it  my  fancy  that  brought  their  thin 
fragrance  to  me  over  piles  of  billowy 
clouds?  There  was  something  there 
that  was  old — old  as  the  race.  Those 
green  valleys  were  the  same  as  when 
the  mists  first  lifted  from  the  earth.  As 
I  looked  my  life  stood  still.  My  soul 
shivered  faintly.  As  I  looked  I  felt 
nearer,  my  God,  to  thee — though  I 
have  no  God  and  everything  is  away 
from  me,  nothing  tender  comes  to 
me. 

Still  it  was  nearer,  my  God,  to  thee. 

A  voice  came  out  of  the  far,  far  dis 
tant  ages  and  said  very  gently:  "All 
these  shadows  are  falling  in  vain.  You 
are  blinded  and  bewildered  in  the  dark 
ness — the  darkness  is  deep  —  deep. 
There  is  not  one  dim  ray  of  light. 


234     THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

Your  feet  falter  and  stumble.  You  can 
not  see.  But  the  shadows  are  falling 
in  vain." 

I  ask  you,  Why  is  this  life  not  mine? 

I  implore  and  wring  my  hands  in 
agonized  entreaty,  and  almost  it  seems 
sometimes  my  fingers  can  grasp  these 
things — but  there  is  something  cold  and 
strong  between  them  and  me.  Oh, 
what  is  it! 

There  was  a  picture  of  various  castles 
in  Spain.  They  were  most  beautiful, 
were  those  castles.  The  lights  that 
shone  on  the  battlements  were  soft, 
bright  lights.  For  one  thing,  I  fancied 
I  saw  myself  and  Fame  with  me. 
Fame  is  very  fine.  The  sun  and  moon 
and  stars  may  go  dark  in  the  Heavens. 
Bitter  rain  may  fall  out  of  the  clouds. 
But  never  mind.  Fame  has  a  sun  and 
moon  and  gently  brilliant  stars  of  her 
own,  and  these,  shining  once,  shine 
always.  The  green  river  may  run  dry 
in  the  land.  But  Fame  has  a  green 
river  that  never  runs  dry.  One  may 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     235 

wander  over  the  face  of  the  earth. 
But  Fame  is  herself  a  refuge.  One 
may  be  a  target  for  stones  and  mud. 
Yes — but  Fame  stands  near  with  her 
arm  laid  across  one's  shoulders — as  no 
other  arm  can  be  laid  across  one's 
shoulders.  Fame  would  fill  several 
empty  places.  Fame  would  continue 
to  fill  them  for  some  years. 

Fame,  if  you  please,  Devil. 

There  was  a  picture  of  Death.  I  saw 
a  figure  lying  in  the  midst  of  a  desert 
that  was  rather  like  my  sand  and  bar 
renness.  Not  far  off  a  wolf  sat  on  his 
haunches  and  waited  for  the  end.  A 
buzzard  perched  near  and  waited  also. 
They  both  appeared  hungry.  It 
seemed  as  though  the  end  might  come 
quickly. 

Let  it  come,  kind  Devil. 

And  a  wolf  and  a  buzzard  are  better 
than  an  undertaker  and  some  worms. 
Although  that  doesn't  much  matter. 

And  oh,  there  again  was  the  dearest 
picture  of  all — the  red,  red  picture  of 


236    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

Happiness  for  me,  Happiness  with  the 
sunshine  falling  on  the  Heaven-kissing 
hills!  There  was  I,  and  I  loved  and 
was  loved.  I — out  of  loneliness  into 
perfect  Happiness!  The  yellow-gold  of 
the  glorious  hot  sun  melted  and  poured 
over  the  earth  and  over  everything 
that  was  there.  The  river  ran  and 
rippled  and  sang  the  most  sweetly  glad 
song  that  ever  river  sang.  Winged 
things  sparkled  in  the  gold  light  and 
flew  down  the  sky.  "The  wonderful 
air  was  over  me;  the  wonderful  wind 
was  shaking  the  tree."  The  silent 
voices  in  the  air  rang  out  like  flutes  and 
clarionets.  And  the  love  of  the  man- 
devil  for  me  was  everywhere — above 
me,  around  me,  within  me.  It  would 
last  for  a  number  of  beautiful  yellow- 
gold  days.  I — out  of  the  anguish  of 
loneliness  into  this! 

My  heart  is  filled  with  desire. 

My  soul  is  filled  with  passion. 

My  life  is  a  life  of  longing. 

All  pictures  fade  before  this  picture. 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     237 

They  fade  completely.  When  the  sun 
itself  faded  I  gazed  over  my  sand  and 
barrenness  with  blurred,  unseeing  eyes 
and  wished  only  with  a  heavy,  desolate 
spirit  for  the  coming  of  the  Devil. 


/iDarcb  21. 

SOME  people  think,  absurdly 
enough,  that  to  be  Scotch  or 
descended  from  the  Scottish  clans 
is  to  be  rather  strong,  rather  conserva 
tive,  firm  in  faith,  and  all  that.  The 
idea  is  one  that  should  be  completely 
exploded  by  this  time.  I  think  that  the 
Scotch  as  a  nation  are  the  most  difficult 
of  all  to  characterize.  Their  traits  and 
tendencies  cover  a  wider  field  than 
those  of  any  other.  To  be  Scotch  is  to 
be  anything.  There  is  no  man  so 
narrow  as  a  Scotchman.  There  is  no 
man  so  broad  as  a  Scotchman.  There 
is  no  mind  so  versatile  as  a  Scotch  mind. 
At  the  same  time  only  a  Scotch  mind  is 
capable  of  clinging  with  bull-dog 
tenacity  to  one  idea.  A  Scotch  heart 
out  of  all,  and  through  all,  can  be  true 
as  death.  A  Scotch  heart — the  same 
one — can  be  cunning  and  treacherous 
as  false  human  hearts  are  made.  To 

be  English  is  to  have  limits;    the  Ger- 
238 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     23Q 

mans,  the  French,  the  Russians — they 
have  all  some  inevitable  attributes  to 
modify  their  genius. 

But  one  may  be  anything — anything, 
if  one  is  Scotch. 

Always  I  think  of  the  cruel,  hard 
ened,  ferocious,  weather-beaten,  kilted 
Clan  Mac  Lean  wandering  over  bleak 
winter  hills,  fighting  the  powerful  Mac 
Donalds  and  MacGregors — and  gener 
ally  wiping  them  from  the  earth, — 
marching  away  with  merrily  shrieking 
pipes  [from  fields  of  withered,  blood- 
soaked  heather — and  all  this  merely  to 
gather  intensified  life  for  me.  I  feel 
that  the  causes  of  my  tragedy  began 
long,  long  ago  from  remote  germs. 

My  Scotch  blood  added  to  my  genius 
sense  has  made  me  into  a  dangerous 
chemical  compound.  By  analyzing  I 
have  brought  an  almost  clear  portrait 
of  myself  up  before  my  mind's  eyes. 

When  I  was  a  child  I  did  not  analyze 
knowingly,  but  the  child  was  this  same 
genius,  though  I  am  one  of  the  kind 


24O    THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

that  changes  widely  and  decidedly  in 
the  years.  This  weary  unhappiness  is 
not  a  matter  of  development. 

When  I  was  a  child  I  felt  dumbly 
what  I  feel  now  less  dumbly.  At  the 
age  of  five  I  used  sometimes  to  weep 
silently  in  the  night — I  did  not  know 
why.  It  was  that  I  felt  my  aloneness, 
my  foreignness  to  all  things.  I  felt  the 
heavy,  heavy  weight  of  life — and  I  was 
only  five. 

I  was  only  five,  and  it  seems  a  thou 
sand  years  ago.  But  sometimes  back 
through  the  long,  winding,  unused  pas 
sages  of  my  mind  I  hear  that  silent  sob 
bing  of  the  child  and  the  unarmed 
wailing  of  a  tiny,  tired  soul. 

It  mingles  with  the  bitter  Nothing 
ness  of  the  grown  young  woman,  and 
oh,  with  it  all — with  it  all  I  ar-  so  un 
happy! 

There  is  something  subtly  Scotch  in 
all  this. 

But  Scotch  or  Indian  or  Japanese, 
there  is  no  stopping  of  the  pain. 


/iDarcb  22. 

I  FEAR,  do  you  know,  fine  world, 
that  you  do  not  yet  know  me  really 
well — particularly  me  of  the  flesh. 
Me  of  the  peculiar  philosophy  and  the 
unhappy  spirit  you  know  rather  well  by 
now,  unless  you  are  stupider  than  I 
think  you  are.  But  you  might  pass  me 
in  the  street — you  might  spend  the  day 
with  me — and  never  suspect  that  I  am 
I.  Though  for  the  matter  of  that,  even 
if  I  had  set  before  you  a  most  graphic 
and  minutely  drawn  portrait  of  myself, 
I  am  certainly  clever  enough  to  act  a 
quite  different  role  if  I  chose — when 
you  came  to  spend  the  day.  Still,  if 
the  world  at  large  is  to  know  me  as  I 
desire  it  to  know  me  without  ever  see 
ing  me,  I  shall  have  to  bring  myself 
into  closer  personal  range  with  it — 
and  you  may  rise  in  your  seats  and 
focus  your  opera-glasses,  stare  with 
open  mouths,  stand  on  your  hind-legs 
241 


242     THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

and  gape — I  will  myself  turn  on  glaring 
green  and  orange  lights  from  the 
wings. 

I  believe  that  it's  the  trivial  little 
facts  about  anything  that  describe  it 
the  most  effectively.  In  "Vanity  Fair," 
when  Beckey  Sharpe  was  describing 
young  Crawley  in  a  letter  to  her  friend 
Amelia,  she  stated  that  he  had  hay- 
colored  whiskers  and  straw-colored 
hair.  And  knowing  this  you  feel  that 
you  know  much  more  about  the  Craw- 
ley  than  you  would  if  Miss  Sharpe  had 
not  mentioned  those  things.  And  yet 
it  is  but  a  mere  matter  of  color! 

When  you  think  that  Dickens  was 
extremely  fond  of  cats  you  feel  at  once 
that  nothing  could  be  more  fitting. 
Somehow  that  marvelously  mingled 
humor  and  pathos  and  gentle  irony 
seem  to  go  exceedingly  well  with  a 
fondness  for  soft,  green-eyed,  purring 
things.  If  you  had  not  read  the 
pathetic  humor,  but  knew  about  Dick 
ens  and  his  warm  feline  friends  you 


THE    STORY    QF    MARY    MAC  LANE     243 

might  easily  expect  such  things  from 
him. 

When  you  read  somewhere  that  Dr. 
Johnson  is  said  never  to  have  washed 
his  neck  and  his  ears,  and  then  go  and 
read  some  of  his  powerful,  original 
philosophy,  you  say  to  yourself,  "Yes,  I 
can 'readily  believe  that  this  man  never 
troubled  himself  to  wash  his  neck  and 
his  ears."  I,  for  my  part,  having  read 
some; of  the  things  he  has  written,  can 
not  reconcile  myself  to  the  fact  that  he 
ever  washed  any  part  of  his  anatomy. 
I  admire  Dr.  Johnson — though  I  wash 
my  own  neck  occasionally. 

When  you  think  of  Napoleon  amus 
ing  himself  by  taking  a  child  on  his 
knee  and  pinching  it  to  hear  it  cry,  you 
feel  an  ecstatic  little  wave  of  pleasure 
at  the  perfect  fitness  of  things.  You 
think  of  his  hard,  brilliant,  continuous 
victories,  and  you  suspect  that  Napo 
leon  Bonaparte  lived  but  to  gratify 
Napoleon  Bonaparte.  When  you  think 
of  the  heavy,  muscular  man  smilingly 


244    THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

pinching  the  child,  you  are  quite  sure 
of  it.  Such  a  method  of  amusement 
for  that  king  among  men  is  so  ex 
quisitely  appropriate  that  you  wonder 
why  you  had  not  thought  of  it  yourself. 

So,  then,  yes.  I  believe  strenuously 
in  the  efficacy  of  seemingly  trivial  facts 
as  portrayers  of  one's  character — one's 
individual  humanness. 

Now  I  will  set  down  for  your  benefit 
divers  and  varied  observations  relative 
to  me — an  interesting  one  of  woman 
kind  and  nineteen  years,  and  curious 
and  fascinating  withal. 

Well,  then. 

Nearly  every  day  I  make  me  a  plate 
of  hot,  rich  fudge,  with  brown  sugar  (I 
should  be  an  entirely  different  person 
if  I  made  it  with  white  sugar — and  the 
fudge  would  not  be  nearly  so  good), 
and  take  it  upstairs  to  my  room,  with  a 
book  or  a  newspaper.  My  mind  then 
takes  in  a  part  of  what  is  contained  in 
the  book  or  the  newspaper,  and  the 
stomach  of  the  Mac  Lane  takes  in  all 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     245 

of  what  is  contained  in  the  plate.  I  sit 
by  my  window  in  a  miserable,  uncom 
fortable,  stiff-backed  chair,  but  I  relieve 
the  strain  by  resting  my  feet  on  the 
edge  of  the  low  bureau.  Usually  the 
book  that  I  read  is  an  old  dilapidated 
bound  volume  of  that  erstwhile  peri 
odical,  "Our  Young  Folks."  It  is  a 
thing  that  possesses  a  cliarm  for  me. 
I  never  grow  tired  of  it.  As  I  eat  my 
nice  brown  little  squares  of  fudge  I 
read  about  a  boy  whose  name  is  Jack 
Hazard  and  who,  J.  T.  Trowbridge  in 
forms  the  reader,  is  doing  his  best,  and 
who  seems  to  find  it  somewhat  diffi 
cult.  I  believe  I  could  repeat  pages  of 
J.  T.  Trowbridge  from  memory,  and 
that  ancient  bound  volume  has  become 
a  part  of  my  life.  I  stop  reading  after 
a  few  minutes,  but  I  continue  to  eat — 
and  gaze  at  the  toes  of  my  shoes  which 
need  polishing  badly,  or  at  the  con 
glomeration  of  brilliant  pictures  on  my 
bedroom  wall,  or  out  of  the  window  at 
the  children  playing  in  the  street.  But 


246    THE    STORY   OF   MARY    MAC  LANE 

mostly  I  gaze  without  seeing,  and  my 
versatile  mind  is  engaged  either  in 
nothing  or  in  repeating  something  over 
and  over,  such  as,  "But  the  sweet  face 
of  Lucy  Gray  will  never  more  be  seen." 
Only  I  am  not  aware  that  I  have  been 
repeating  it  until  I  happen  to  remem 
ber  it  afterward. 

Always  the  fudge  is  very  good,  and  I 
eat  and  eat  with  unabated  relish  until 
all  the  little  squares  are  gone.  A  very 
little  of  my  fudge  has  been  known  to 
give  some  people  a  most  terrific  stom 
ach-ache — but  my  own  digestive  organs 
seem  to  like  nothing  better.  It's  so 
brown — so  rich! 

I  amuse  myself  with  this  for  an  hour 
or  two  in  the  afternoon.  Then  I  go 
downstairs  and  work  awhile. 

There  are  few  things  that  annoy  me 
so  much  as  to  be  called  a  young  lady. 
I  am  no  lady — as  any  one  could  see  by 
close  inspection,  and  the  phrase  has  an 
odious  sound.  I  would  rather  be 
called  a  sweet  little  thing,  or  a  fallen 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     247 

woman,  or  a  sensible  girl — though  they 
would  each  be  equally  a  lie. 

Always  I  am  glad  when  night  conies 
and  I  can  sleep.  My  mind  works  busily 
repeating  things  while  I  divest  myself 
of  my  various  dusty  garments.  As  I 
remove  a  dozen  or  two  of  hairpins 
from  my  head  I  say  within  me: 

"You   are  old,    father  William,    one   would 

hardly  suppose 

That  your  eye  is  as  steady  as  ever; 
Yet  you  balanced  an  eel  on  the  end  of  your 

nose — 
What  made  you  so  awfully  clever?" 

Always  I  take  a  little  clock  to  bed  with 
me  and  hang  it  by  a  cord  at  the  head 
of  my  bed  for  company.  I  have  named 
the  clock  Little  Fido,  because  it  is  so 
constant  and  ticks  always.  It  is  begin 
ning  to  stand  in  the  same  relation  to  me 
as  J.  T.  Trowbridge's  magazine.  If  I 
were  to  go  away  from  here  I  should 
take  Little  Fido  and  the  magazine  with 
me. 


248    THE    STORY   OF   MARY    MAC  LANE 

Every  morning,  being  beautifully 
hungry  after  my  walk,  I  eat  three 
boiled  eggs  out  of  the  shell  for  my 
breakfast.  The  while  I  mentally  thank 
the  kind  Providence  that  invented  hens. 
Also  I  eat  bits  of  toast.  I  have  my 
breakfast  alone — because  the  rest  of 
the  family  are  still  sleeping, — sitting  at 
a  corner  of  the  kitchen  table.  I  enjoy 
those  three  eggs  and  those  bits  of  toast. 
Usually  when  I  am  eating  my  breakfast 
I  am  thinking  of  three  things:  the  vary 
ing  price  of  any  eggs  that  are  fit  to  eat; 
of  what  to  do  after  I've  finished  my 
housework  and  before  lunch;  and  of 
my  one  friend.  And  I  meditatively 
and  gently  kick  the  leg  of  the  table 
with  the  heel  of  my  right  foot. 

I  have  beautiful  hair. 

In  the  front  of  my  shirt-waist  there 
are  nine  cambric  handkerchiefs  cun 
ningly  distributed.  My  figure  is  very 
pretty,  to  be  sure,  but  not  so  well  de^ 
veloped  as  it  will  be  in  five  years — if  I 
live  so  long.  And  so  I  help  it  out 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     249 

materially  with  nine  cambric  handker 
chiefs.  You  can  see  by  my  picture  that 
my  waist  curves  gracefully  out.  Only 
it  is  not  all  flesh — some  of  it  is  hand 
kerchief.  It  amuses  me  to  do  this.  It 
is  one  of  my  petty  vanities. 

Likewise  by  an  ingenious  arrange 
ment  of  my  striped  moreen  petticoat  I 
contrive  to  display  a  more  evident  pair 
of  hips  than  Nature  seems  to  have  in 
tended  for  me  at  this  stage.  Doubtless 
they  also  will  take  on  fuller  proportion? 
when  some  years  have  passed.  Still  I 
am  not  dissatisfied  with  them  as  they 
are.  It  is  not  as  if  they  were  too  well 
developed — in  which  case  I  should  have 
need  of  all  my  skill  in  arranging  my 
moreen  petticoat  so  as  to  lessen  their 
effect.  It  is  easy  enough  to  add  on  to 
these  things,  but  one  would  experience 
serious  difficulty  in  attempting  to  take 
from  them.  I  hate  that  heavy,  aggres 
sive  kind  of  hips.  Moreover,  small, 
graceful  ones  are  desirable  when  one  is 
nineteen.  The  world  at  large  judges 


250    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

you  more  leniently  on  that  account — 
usually.  Narrow,  shapely  hips  may 
give  one  an  effect  of  youth  and  harm- 
lessness  which  is  a  distinct  advantage, 
when,  for  instance,  one  is  writing  a 
Portrayal  and  so  will  be  at  the  world's 
mercy.  I  believe  I  should  not  think  of 
attempting  to  write  a  Portrayal  if  I  had 
hips  like  a  pair  of  saddle-bags.  Cer 
tainly  it  would  avail  me  nothing. 

Sometimes  I  look  at  my  face  in  a 
mirror  and  find  it  not  plain  but  ugly. 
And  there  are  other  times  when  I  look 
and  find  it  not  pretty  but  beautiful  with 
a  Madonna-like  sweetness. 

I  told  you  I  might  say  more  about 
the  liver  that  is  within  me  before  I 
have  done.  Well,  then,  I  will  say  this: 
that  the  world,  if  it  had  a  liver  like 
mine,  would  be  very  different  from 
what  it  is.  The  world  would  be  many- 
colored  and  mobile  and  passionate  and 
nervous  and  high-strung  and  intensely 
alive  and  poetic  and  romantic  and 
philosophical  and  egotistic  and  pa- 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     251 

thetic,  and,  oh,  racked  to  the  .verge  of 
madness  with  the  spirit  of  unrest — if 
the  world  had  a  liver  (like  mine.  It  is 
not  all  of  these  now.  It  is  rather 
stupid.  Gods  and  little  fishes!  would 
not  the  world  be  wonderful  if  all  in  it 
were  like  me?  And  it  would  be  if  it 
had  a  liver  like  mine.  For  it  is  my 
Jiver  mostly  that  makes  me  what  I 
am — apart  from  my  genius.  My  liver 
is  fine  and  perfect,  but  sensitive,  and, 
well — it's  a  dangerous  thing  to  have 
within  you. 

It  is  the  liver  of  the  Mac  Lanes. 

It  is  the  foundation  of  the  curious 
castle  of  my  existence. 

And  after  all,  fine,  brave,  stupid 
world,  you  may  be  grateful  to  the  Devil 
that  yours  is  not  like  it. 

I  have  seventeen  little  engraved  por 
traits  of  Napoleon  that  I  keep  in  one  of 
my  bureau-drawers.  Often  late  in  the 
evening,  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock, 
when  I  come  in  from  a  walk  over  the 
sand  and  barrenness,  I  take  these  pic- 


252     THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

tures  from  the  drawer  and  gaze  at  them 
carefully  a  long  time  and  think  of  that 
man  until  I  am  stirred  to  the  depths. 

And  then  easily  and  naturally  I  fall 
in  love  with  Napoleon. 

If  only  he  were  living  now,  I  think  to 
myself,  I  would  make  my  way  to  him 
by  whatever  means  and  cast  myself  at 
his  feet.  I  would  entreat  him  with  the 
most  passionate  humbleness  of  spirit  to 
take  me  into  his  life  for  three  days. 
To  be  the  wife  of  Napoleon  for  three 
days — that  would  be  enough  for  a  life 
time!  I  would  be  much  more  than 
satisfied  if  I  could  get  three  such  days 
out  of  life. 

I  suppose  a  man  is  either  a  villain  or 
a  fool,  though  some  of  them  seem  to 
be  a  judicious  mingling  of  both.  The 
type  of  the  distinct  villain  is  preferable 
to  a  mixture  of  the  two,  and  to  a  plain 
fool.  I  like  a  villain  anyway — a  villain 
that  can  be  rather  tender  at  times. 
And  so,  then,  as  I  look  at  the  pictures  I 
fall  in  love  with  the  incomparable 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     253 

Napoleon.  The  seventeen  pictures 
are  all  different  and  all  alike.  I  fall  in 
love  with  each  picture  separately. 

In  one  he  is  ugly  and  unattractive 
— and  strong.  I  fall  in  love  with 
him. 

In  another  he  is  cruel  and  heartless 
and  utterly  selfish — and  strong.  I  fall 
in  love  with  him. 

In  a  third  he  has  a  fat,  pudgy  look, 
and  is  quite  insignificant — and  strong. 
I  fall  in  love  with  him. 

In  a  fourth  he  is  grandly  sad  and  full 
of  despair — and  strong.  I  fall  in  love 
with  him. 

In  the  fifth  he  is  greasy  and  greedy 
and  common-looking — and  strong.  I 
fall  in  love  with  him. 

In  the  sixth  he  is  masterly  and  supe 
rior  and  exalted — and  strong.  I  fall  in 
love  with  him. 

In  the  seventh  he  is  romantic  and 
beautiful — and  strong.  I  fall  in  love 
with  him. 

In  the  eighth  he  is  obviously  sensual 


254  THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

and  reeking  with  uncleanness — and 
strong.  I  fall  in  love  with  him. 

In  the  ninth  he  is  unearthly  and  mys 
terious  and  unreal — and  strong.  I  fall 
in  love  with  him. 

In  the  tenth  he  is  black  and  sullen- 
browed,  and  ill-humored — and  strong. 
I  fall  in  love  with  him. 

In  the  eleventh  he  is  inferior  and 
trifling  and  inane — and  strong.  I  fall 
in  love  with  him. 

In  the  twelfth  he  is  rough  and 
ruffianly  and  uncouth — and  strong.  I 
fall  in  love  with  him. 

In  the  thirteenth  he  is  little  and  wolf 
ish  and  vile — and  strong.  I  fall  in  love 
with  him. 

In  the  fourteenth  he  is  calm  and  con 
fident  and  intellectual — and  strong.  I 
fall  in  love  with  him. 

In  the  fifteenth  he  is  vacillating  and 
fretful  and  his  mouth  is  like  a  wo 
man's — and  still  he  is  strong.  I  fall  in 
love  with  him. 

In  the  sixteenth  he  is  slow  and  heavy 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     255 

and  brutal — and  strong.  I  fall  in  love 
with  him. 

In  the  seventeenth  he  is  rather  ten 
der — and  strong.  I  fall  vividly  in  love 
with  him. 

Napoleon  was  rather  like  the  Devil, 
I  think  as  Psit  in  the  straight-backed 
chair  with  my  feet  on  the  bureau  and 
gaze  long  and  intently  at  the  seventeen 
pictures,  late  in  the  evening. 

Then  I  wearily'put'them  away,  mad 
dened  with  the  sense  of  Nothingness, 
and  take  Little  Fido  and  go  to 
bed. 

Sometimes,  early  in  the  evening  just 
before  dinner,  I  sit  in  the  stiff-backed 
chair  with  my  elbows  on  the  window- 
sill  and  my  head  resting  on  one  hand, 
and  I  look  out  of  the  window  at  a  Pile 
of  Stones  and  a  Barrel  of  Lime.  These 
are  in  the  vacant  lot  next  to  this 
house. 

I  fix  my  eyes  intently  on  the  Pile  of 
Stones  and  the  Barrel  of  Lime.  And  I 
fix  my  thoughts  on  them  also.  And 


256    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

some  of  my  widest  thoughts  come  to 
me  then. 

I  feel  an  overwhelming  wave  of  a 
kind  of  pantheism  which,  at  the  mo 
ment  I  feel  it,  begins  slowly  to  grow 
less  and  less  and  continues  in  this  until 
finally  it  dwindles  to  a  Pile  of  Stones 
and  a  Barrel  of  Lime. 

I  feel  at  the  moment  that  the  uni 
verse  is  a  Pile  of  Stones  and  a  Barrel  of 
Lime.  They  alone  are  the  Real  Things. 

Take  anything  at  any  point  and  de 
ceive  yourself  into  thinking  that  you 
are  happy  with  it.  But  look  at  it 
heavily;  dig  down  underneath  the  lay 
ers  and  layers  of  rose-colored  mists  and 
you  will  find  that  your  Thing  is  a  Pile 
of  Stones  and  a  Barrel  of  Lime. 

A  struggle  or  two,  a  fight,  an  agony, 
a  passing — and  then  the  only  Real 
Things:  a  Pile  of  Stones  and  a  Barrel 
of  Lime. 

Damn  everything!  Afterward  you 
will  find  that  you  have  done  all  your 
damning  for  naught.  For  there  is 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     257 

nothing  worthy  of  damnation  except  a 
Pile  of  Stones  and  a  Barrel  of  Lime— 
and  they  are  not  damnable.  They 
have  never  harmed  you,  and  moreover 
they  alone  are  the  Real  Things. 

Julius  Caesar  made  many  wars.  Sir 
Francis  Drake  went  sailing  over  the 
seas.  It  was  all  child's  play  and  counts 
for  nothing.  Here  are  the  Pile  of 
Stones  and  a  Barrel  of  Lime. 

And  so  this  is  how  it  is  early  in  the 
evening  just  before  dinner,  when  I  sit 
in  the  uncomfortable  chair  with  my 
elbows  on  the  window-sill  and  my  head 
resting  on  one  hand. 

I  have  two  pictures  of  Marie  Bash- 
kirtseff  high  upon  my  wall.  Often  I 
lean  my  head  on  the  back  of  the  chair 
with  my  feet  on  the  bureau — always 
with  my  feet  on  the  bureau — and  look 
at  these  pictures. 

In  one  of  them  she  is  eighteen  years 
old  and  wears  a  green  frock  which  is 
extremely  becoming — of  which  fact  the 
person  inside  of  it  seems  fully  aware. 


258    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

The  other  picture  is  taken  from  her 
last  photograph,  when  she  was  twenty- 
four. 

Marie  Bashkirtseff  is  a  very  beautiful 
creature.  And  evidently  she  is  not 
obliged  to  arrange  a  moreen  petticoat 
over  her  plumpness  She  has  a  won 
derfully  voluptuous  look  for  a  woman 
of  eighteen  years.  In  the  later  picture 
vanity  is  written  in  every  line  of  her 
graceful  form  and  in  every  feature  of 
that  charming  face.  The  picture  fairly 
yells:  "I  am  Marie  Bashkirtseff — and, 
oh,  I  am  splendid!" 

And  as  I  look  at  the  pictures  I  am 
glad.  For  though  she  was  admirable 
and  splendid,  and  all,  she  was  no  such 
genius  as  I.  She  had  a  genius  of  her 
own,  it  is  true.  But  the  Bashkirtseff, 
with  her  voluptuous  body  and  her  at 
tractive  personality,  is  after  all  a  bit 
ordinary  My  genius,  though  not 
powerful,  is  rare  and  deep,  and  no  one 
has  ever  had  or  ever  will  have  a  genius 
like  it 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE    259 

Mary  Mac  Lane,  if  you  live — if  you 
live,  my  darling,  the  world  will  one  day 
recognize  your  genius.  And  when  once 
the  world  has  recognized  such  genius 
as  this — oh,  then  no  one  will  ever  think 
of  profaning  it  by  comparing  it  with 
any  Bashkirtseff! 

But  I  would  give  up  this  genius 
eagerly,  gladly — at  once  and  forever — • 
for  one  dear,  bright  day  free  from 
loneliness. 

The  portraits  of  the  Bashkirtseff  are 
certainly  beautiful,  but  there  is  some 
thing  about  them  that  is — well,  not  com 
mon,  but  bourgeois  at  least,  as  if  she 
were  a  German  waitress  of  unusual  ap 
pearance,  or  an  aristocratic  shop-girl,  or 
a  nurse  with  good  taste  who  would 
walk  out  on  pleasant  forenoons  wheel 
ing  a  go-cart — something  of  that  sort. 
Perhaps  it  is  because  her  neck  is  too 
short,  or  because  her  wrists  are  too 
muscular-looking.  I  thank  a  gracious 
Devil  as  I  look  up  at  the  pictures  that  I 
have  not  those  particular  points  and 


26O  THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

that  particular  bourgeois  air.  I  am 
bound  to  confess  that  I  have  one  of  my 
own,  but  mine  is  Highland  Scotch — and 
anyway,  I  am  Mary  Mac  Lane. 

Marie  Bashkirtseff  is  beautiful 
enough,  however,  that  she  can  easily 
afford  to  look  rather  second-rate. 

I  like  to  look  at  my  two  pictures  of 
her. 

I  value  money  literally  for  its  own 
sake.  I  like  the  feeling  of  dollars  and 
quarters  rubbing  softly  together  in  my 
hand.  Always  it  reminds  me  of  those 
lovely  chestfuls  of  gold  that  Captain 
Kidd  buried — no  one  seems  to  know 
just  where.  Usually  I  keep  some  fairly- 
clean  dollars  and  quarters  to  handle. 
"Money  is  so  nice!"  I  say  to  myself. 

If  you  think,  fine  world,  that  I  am 
always  interesting  and  striking  and  ad 
mirable,  always  original,  showing  up  to 
good  advantage  in  a  company  of  per 
sons,  and  all — why,  then  you  are  beau 
tifully  mistaken.  There  are  times,  to 
be  sure,  when  I  can  rivet  the  attention 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     26 1 

of  the  crowd  heavily  upon  myself.  But 
mostly  I  am*  the  very  least  among  all 
the  idiots  and  fools.  I  show  up  to  the 
poorest  possible  advantage. 

Of  several  ways  that  are  mine  there 
is  one  that  gives  me  a  distinct  and 
hopeless  air  of  insignificance.  I  have 
seen  people,  having  met  me  for  the  first 
time,  glance  carelessly  at  me  as  if  they 
were  quite  sure  I  had  not  an  idea  in  my 
brain — if  I  had  a  brain;  as  if  they  won 
dered  why  I  had  been  asked  there;  as  if 
they  were  fully  aware  that  they  had  but 
to  fiddle  and  "It"  would  dance.  Some 
times  before  this  highly  intellectual 
gathering  breaks  up  I  manage  to  make 
them  change  their  minds  with  astonish 
ing  suddenness.  But  nearly  always  I 
don't  bother  about  it  at  all.  I  go 
among  people  occasionally  because  it 
amuses  me.  It  may  be  a  literary  club 
where  they  talk  theosophy,  or  it  may 
be  a  Cornish  dance  where  they  have 
pasty  and  saffron  cake  and  the  chief 
amusement  is  sending  beer-bottles  at 


262    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

various  heads,  or  it  may  be  a  lady-like 
circle  of  married  women  with  cerise 
silk  drop-skirts  and  white  kid  gloves, 
drinking  chocolate  in  the  afternoon  and 
talking  about  something  "shocking!" 

And  often,  as  I  say,  I  am  the  least  of 
them. 

Genius  is  an  odd  thing. 

When  certain  of  my  skirts  need  sew 
ing,  they  don't  get  sewed.  I  simply  pin 
the  rents  in  them  together  and  it  lasts 
as  long  or  longer  than  if  I  had  seated 
myself  in  my  stiff-backed  chair  with  a 
needle  and  thread  and  mended  them — 
like  a  sensible  girl.  (I  hate  a  sensible 
girl.) 

Though  I  have  never  yet  hurriedly 
pinned  up  a  torn  flounce  or  several 
inches  of  skirt-binding  without  saying 
softly  to  myself,  using  a  trite,  expres 
sive  phrase,  "Certainly,  it's  a  hell  of  a 
way  to  do."  Still  I  never  take  a  needle 
and  mend  my  garments.  I  couldn't, 
anyway.  I  never  learned  to  sew,  and  I 
don't  intend  ever  to  learn.  It  reminds 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     263 

me  too  much  of  a  constipated  dress 
maker. 

And  so  I  pin  up  the  torn  places 
• — though,  as  I  say,  I  never  fail  to 
make  use  of  the  quaint,  expressive 
phrase. 

All  of  which  a  reasonably  astute 
reader  will  recognize  as  an  important 
point  in  the  portraying  of  any  charac 
ter — whether  mine  or  the  queen  of 
Spain's. 

I  had  for  my  dinner  to-day  some 
whole-wheat  bread,  some  liver-and- 
bacon,  and  some  green,  green  early 
asparagus.  While  I  was  eating  these 
the  world  seemed  a  very  nice  place  in 
deed. 

I  never  see  people  walking  along  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  as  I  sit 
by  my  window,  without  wondering  who 
they  are,  and  how  they  live,  and  how 
ugly  they  would  look  if  their  bodies 
were  not  adorned  with  clothes.  Always 
I  feel  certain  that  some  of  them  are 
bow-legged. 


264    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

And  sometimes  I  see  a  woman  in  a 
fearful  state  of  deshabille  walk  across 
the  vacant  lot  next  to  this.  "A  plague 
on  me,"  I  say  then  to  myself,  "if  I  ever 
become  middle-aged  and  if  my  entire 
being  seems  to  tip  up  in  the  front,  and 
if  I  go  about  with  no  stays  so  that  when 
I  tie  an  apron  around  my  waist  my 
upper  fatness  hangs  over  the  band  like 
a  natural  blouse." 

And  so — I  could  go  on  writing  all 
night  these  seemingly  trivial  but  really 
significant  details  relating  to  the  outer 
genius.  But  these  will  answer.  These 
to  any  one  who  knows  things  will  be  a 
revelation. 

Sometimes  you  know  things,  fine 
brave  world. 

You  must  know  likewise  that  though 
I  do  ordinary  things,  when  /  do  them 
they  cease  to  be  ordinary.  I  make 
fudge — and  a  sweet  girl  makes  fudge, 
but  there  are  ways  and  ways  of  doing 
things.  This  entire  affair  of  the  fudge 
is  one  of  my  uniquest  points. 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     265 

No  sweet  girl  makes  fudge  and  eats 
it,  as  I  make  fudge  and  eat  it. 

So  it  is. 

But,  oh — who  is  to  understand  all 
this?  Who  will  understand  any  of  this 
Portrayal?  My  unhappy  soul  has 
delved  in  shadows  far,  far  beyond  and 
below. 


flDarcb  23. 

MY  PHILOSOPHY,  I  find  after 
very  little  analysis,  approaches 
precariously  near  to  sensualism. 

It  is  wonderful  how  many  sides  there 
can  be  to  just  one  character. 

Nature,  with  all  those  suns,  and  all 
those  hilltops,  and  all  those  rivers,  and 
all  those  stars,  is  inscrutable — intangi 
ble — maddening.  It  affects  one  with 
unutterable  joy  and  anguish,  but  no  one 
can  ever  begin  to  understand  what  it 
means. 

Human  nature  is  yet  more  inscru 
table — and  nothing  appears  on  the  sur 
face.  One  can  have  no  idea  of  the 
things  buried  in  the  minds  of  one's 
acquaintances.  And  mostly  they  are 
fools  and  have  no  idea  themselves  of 
what  germs  are  in  themselves — of  what 
they  are  capable.  And  in  most  minds  it 
is  true  the  dormant  devils  never  awaken 
and  never  are  known. 
266 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     267 

It  is  another  sign  of  my  analytical 
genius,  that  I,  aged  nineteen,  recognize 
the  devils  in  my  character.  I  have  not 
the  slightest  wish,  since  things  are  as 
they  are  with  me,  to  rid  myself  of 
them.  There  is  in  me  much  more  of 
evil  than  of  good.  Genius  like  mine 
must  needs  have  with  it  manifold  bad. 
"I  have  in  me  the  germ  of  every  crime." 
I  have  no  desire  to  destroy  these 
germs.  I  should  be  glad  indeed  to 
have  them  develop  into  a  ravaging 
disease.  Something  in  this  dreadful 
confusion  would  then  give  way.  My 
wooden  heart  and  my  soul  would  cry  out 
in  the  darkness  less  heavily,  less  bitterly. 

They  want  something — they  know 
not  what. 

I  give  them  poison. 

They  snatch  it  and  eat  it  hungrily. 

Then  they  are  not  so  hungry.  They 
become  quieter. 

The  ravaging  disease  soothes  them 
to  sleep — it  descends  on  them  like  rain 
in  the  autumn. 


268    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

When  I  hurry  over  my  sand  and  bar 
renness  my  vivid  passions  come  to  me — 
or  when  I  sit  and  look  at  the  horizon. 
When  I  walk  slowly  I  consider  calmly 
the  question  of  how  much  evil  I  should 
need  to  kill  off  my  finer  feelings,  to 
poison  thoroughly  this  soul  of  unrest 
and  this  wooden  heart  so  that  they 
would  never  more  be  conscious  of  too- 
brilliant  lights,  and  to  make  myself 
over  into  a  quite  different  creature. 

A  little  evil  would  do — a  little  of  a 
fine,  good  quality. 

I  should  like  a  man  to  come  (it  is 
always  a  man,  have  you  ever  noticed? — 
whatever  one  contemplates  when  one  is 
of  womankind  and  young).  I  should 
like  a  man  to  come,  I  said  calmly  to 
myself  to-day  as  I  walked  slowly  over 
my  barrenness — a  perfect  villain  to 
come  and  fascinate  me  and  lead  me 
with  strong,  gentle  allurements  to  what 
would  be  technically  termed  my  ruin. 
And  as  the  world  views  such  things  it 
would  be  my  ruin.  But  as  I  view  such 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     269 

things  it  would  not  be  ruin.  It  would 
be  a  new  lease  on  life. 

Yes,  I  should  like  a  man  to  come — 
any  man  so  that  he  is"  strong  and 
thoroughly  a  villain,  and  so  that  he  fasci 
nates  me.  Particularly  he  must  fasci 
nate  me.  There  must  be  no  falling  in 
love  about  it.  I  doubt  if  I  could  fasci 
nate  him,  but  I  should  ask  him  quite 
humbly  to  lead  me  to  my  ruin. 

I  have  never  yet  seen  the  man  who 
would  not  readily  respond  to  such  an 
appeal. 

This  villain  would  be  no  exception. 

I  would  then  jerk  my  life  out  of  this 
Nothingness  by  the  roots.  Farewell,  a 
long  farewell,  I  would  say.  Then  I 
would  go  forth  with  the  man  to  my 
ruin.  The  man  would  be  bad  to  his 
heart's  core.  And  after  living  but  a 
short  time  with  him  my  shy,  sensitive 
soul  would  be  irretrievably  poisoned 
and  polluted.  The  defilement  of  so 
sacred  and  beautiful  a  thing  as  mar 
riage  is  surely  the  darkest  evil  that  can 


27O    THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

come  to  a  life.  And  so  everything 
within  me  that  had  turned  toward  that 
too-bright  light  would  then  drink  deep 
of  the  lees  of  death. 

The  thirst  of  this  incessant  unrest 
and  longing,  this  weariness  of  self, 
would  be  quenched  completely. 

My  life  would  be  like  fertile  soil 
planted  thickly  with  rank  wild  mustard. 
On  every  square  inch  of  soil  there 
would  be  a  dozen  sprouts  of  wild  mus 
tard.  There  would  be  no  room — no 
room  at  all — for  an  anemone  to  grow. 
If  one  should  start  up,  instantly  it  would 
be  choked  and  overrun  with  wild  mus 
tard.  But  no  anemone  would  start  up. 

My  life  now  is  a  life  of  pain  and  revolt. 

My  life  darkened  and  partly  killed 
would  be  more  than  content  to  drift 
along  with  the  current. 

Oh,  it  would  be  a  rest! 

The  Christians  sing,  there  is  rest  for 
the  weary,  on  the  other  side  of  Jordan, 
where  the  tree  of  life  is  blooming.  But 
that  rest,  of  course,  is  for  the  Chris- 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE  27! 

tians.  My  rest  will  have  to  come  on 
this  side  of  Jordan.  Let  the  impress  of 
a  thoroughly  evil  and  strong  man  be 
stamped  upon  my  inner  life,  and  I  am 
convinced  there  would  come  a  wonder 
ful  settled  quiet  over  it.  Its  spirit 
would  be  broken.  It  would  rest.  Why 
not?  I  have  no  virtue-sense.  Nothing 
to  me  is  of  any  consequence  except  to 
be  rid  of  this  unrest  and  pain.  Yes, 
surely  I  might  rest. 

The  coming  of  the  man-devil  would 
bring  rest.  But  I  am  fool  enough  to 
think  that  marriage — the  real  mar 
riage — is  possible  for  me! 

This  other  thing  is  within  the  reach 
of  every  one — of  fools  and  geniuses 
alike — and  of  all  that  come  between. 

And  so  I  want  a  fascinating  wicked 
man  to  come  and  make  me  positively, 
rather  than  negatively,  wicked.  I  feel 
a  terrific  wave  of  utter  weariness.  My 
life  lies  fallow.  I  am  tired  of  sitting 
here.  The  sand  and  barrenness  is  gray 
with  age.  And  I  am  gray  with  age. 


272     THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

Happiness — the  red  of  the  sunset 
sky — is  the  intensest  desire  of  my  life. 

But  I  will  grasp  eagerly  anything  else 
that  is  offered  me — anything. 

The  poisoning  of  my  soul — the  pass 
ing  of  my  unrest — would  rouse  my 
mental  power.  My  genius  would  re 
ceive  a  wonderful  impetus  from  it. 
You  would  marvel,  good  world,  at  the 
things  I  should  write.  Not  that  they 
would  be  exalted — not  that  they  would 
surge  upward.  Do  men  gather  grapes 
of  thorns  or  figs  of  thistles?  But  they 
would  be  marvels  of  fire  and  intensity. 
I  should  no  longer  exhaust  much  of  my 
energy  in  grinding,  grinding  within. 
The  things  that  would  come  of  the 
thorns  and  thistles  would  excite  your 
astonishment  and  admiration,  though 
they  be  not  grapes  and  figs. 

And  as  for  me — the  real  me — the 
creature  imbued  with  a  spirit  of  intense 
femininity,  with  a  spirit  of  an  intense 
sense  of  Love — with  a  spirit  like  that 
of  the  Magdalene  who  loved  too  much, 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     273 

with  the  very  soul  of  unrest  and  Noth 
ingness — this  thing  would  vanish  swiftly 
into  oblivion,  and  I  should  go  down  a 
dark  world  and  feel  not. 


/IDarcb  25. 

ONE  of  the  remarkable  points 
about  my  life  is  that  it  is  so 
completely,  hopelessly  alone — a 
lonely,  lonely  life.  This  book  of  mine 
contains  but  one  character — myself. 

There  is  also  the  Devil — as  a  possi 
bility. 

And  there  is  also  the  anemone  lady — 
my  dearest  beloved — as  a  memory. 

I  have  read  books  that  were  written 
to  portray  but  one  character,  and  there 
were  various  people  brought  in  to  help 
in  the  portraying.  But  my  one  friend 
is  gone,  and  there  is  no  person  who 
enters  into  my  inner  life  in  the  very 
least.  I  am  always  alone.  I  might 
mingle  with  people  intimately  every 
hour  of  my  life — still  I  should  be  alone. 

Always  alone — alone. 

Not  even  a  God  to  worship. 

How  do  I  bear  this?  How  do  I  get 
through  the  days  and  days? 

274 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE    275 

And,  oh,  when  it  all  comes  over  me, 
what  frightful  rage — what  long  agony 
of  my  breaking  heart — what  utter  woe! 

When  the  stars  shine  down  upon  me 
with  cold  hatred;  when  miles  and  miles 
of  barrenness  stretch  out  around  me 
and  envelop  me  in  their  weary,  weary 
Nothingness;  when  the  wind  blows 
over  me  like  the  breath  of  a  vicious 
giant;  when  the  ugly,  ugly  sun  radiates 
centuries  of  hard,  heavy  bitterness 
around  me  from  its  stinging  rays;  when 
the  sky  maddens  me  with  its  cold,  care 
less  blue;  when  the  rivers  that  are  flow 
ing  over  the  earth  send  echoes  to  me  of 
their  hateful  voices;  when  I  hear  wild 
geese  honking  in  bitter  wailing  melody; 
when  bristling  edges  of  jagged  rocks 
cut  sharply  into  my  tired  life;  when 
drops  of  rain  fall  on  me  and  pierce  me 
like  steel  points;  when  the  voices  in  the 
air  shriek  little-minded  malice  in  my 
ears;  when  the  green  of  Nature  is  the 
green  of  spitefulness  and  cruelty;  when 
the  red,  red  of  the  setting  sun  burns 


276  THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

and  consumes  me  with  its  horrid  fever 
ish  effervescence;  when  I  feel  the  all- 
hatred  of  the  Universe  for  its  poor  little 
earth-bugs:  then  it  is  that  I  approach 
nearest  to  Rest. 

The  softnesses  are  my  Unrest. 

I  do  not  want  those  bitter  things. 

But  I  must  have  them  if  I  would  rest. 

I  want  the  softnesses  and  I  want  Rest! 

Oh,  dear  faint  soul,  it  is  hard — hard 
for  us. 

We  are  sick  with  loneliness. 


/IDarcb  26. 

NOW  and  again   I   have  torturing 
glimpses  of  a  Paradise.     And  I 
feel  my  soul  in   its   pain  every 
moment  of  my  life.      Otherwise,  how 
gladly  would  I  deny  the  existence  of  a 
soul  and  a  life  to  come! 

For  my  soul  is  beset  with  Nothing 
ness,  and  the  Paradise  that  shows  itself 
is  not  for  me. 


277 


flDarcb  28. 

HATRED,  after  all,  is  the  easiest 
thing  of  all  to  bear. 
If  you  have  been  forgotten  by 
the  one  who  must  have  made  you,  and 
if  you  have  been  left  alone  of  human 
beings  all  your  life — all  your  nineteen 
years — then,  when  at  last  you  see  some 
one  looking  toward  you  with  beautiful 
eyes,  and  extending  to  you  a  beautiful 
hand,  and  showing  you  a  beautiful 
heart  wherein  is  just  a  little  of  beauti 
ful  sympathy  for  you — for  you— oh, 
that  is  harder  than  anything  to  bear. 
Harder  than  the  loneliness  and  the  bit 
terness — and  the  tears  are  nearer  and 
nearer. 

But  one  would  be  hurt  often,  often 
for  the  sake  of  the  beautiful  things. 
Yes,  one  would  gladly  be  hurt  long  and 
often. 

I  shall  never  forget  how  it  was  with 
me  when  I  first  saw  the  beautiful  eyes 
278 


THE    StORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     279 

of  my  dearest  anemone  lady  when  they 
were  looking  gently — at  me — and  the 
beautiful  hand,  and  the  beautiful  heart. 

The  awakening  of  my  racked  soul  is 
hardly  more  heavily  laden  with  passion 
and  pain.  I  shall  never  forget. 

Though  I  feel  away  from  her  also,  she 
is  the  only  one  out  of  all  to  look  gently 
at  me. 

Let  me  writhe  and  falter  with  pain; 
let  me  go  mad — but  oh,  worldful  of 
people — for  the  love  of  your  God — give 
me  out  of  this  seething  darkness  only 
one  beautiful  human  hand  to  touch 
mine  with  love,  one  beautiful  human 
heart  to  know  the  aching  sad  loneliness 
of  mine,  one  beautiful,  human  soul  to 
mingle  with  mine  in  long,  long  Rest. 

Oh,  for  a  human  being,  my  soul 
wails — a  human  being  to  love  me! 

Oh,  to  know — just  once — what  it  is  to 
be  loved! 

Nineteen  years  without  one  faint 
shadow  of  love  is  mouldy,  crumbling 
age — is  gray  with  the  dust  of  centuries. 


28O    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

How  long  have  I  lived? 

How  long  must  I  live? 

I  am  shrieking  at  you,  cold,  stupid 
world. 

Oh,  the  long,  long  waiting! 

The  millions  of  human  beings! 

I  am  a  human  being  and  there  is  no 
one — no  one — no  one. 

Who  can  know  this  that  has  not  felt 
it?  You  do  not  know — you  can  not 
know. 

Surely  I  do  not  ask  too  much.  But 
whether  or  not  it  is  too  much  I  can  not 
go  through  the  years  without  it — oh,  I 
can  not! 

You  have  lived  your  nineteen  years, 
fine  world,  and  you  have  lived  through 
some  after  years. 

But  in  your  nineteen  years  there  was 
some  one  to  love  you. 

It  is  that  that  counts. 

Since  you  have  had  that  some  one,  in 
your  nineteen  years,  can  you  under 
stand  what  life  is  to  me — me — in  my 
loneliness? 


THE    STORY   OF   MARY    MAC  LANE     281 

My  wailing,  waiting  soul  burns  with 
but  one  desire:  to  be  loved— oh,  to  be 
loved. 


/Emrcfo  29. 

I  AM  making  the  world  my  confessor 
in  this  Portrayal.  My  mind  is 
fairly  bursting  with  egotism  and 
pain,  and  in  writing  this  I  find  a  merci 
ful  outlet.  I  have  become  fond  of  my 
Portrayal.  Often  I  lay  my  forehead 
and  my  lips  caressingly  upon  the 
pages. 

And  I  wish  to  let  you  know  that 
there  is  in  existence  a  genius — an  un 
happy  genius,  a  genius  starving  in  Mon 
tana  in  the  barrenness — but  still  a 
genius.  I  am  a  creature  the  like  of 
which  you  have  never  before  hap 
pened  upon.  You  have  never  suspected 
that  there  is  such  a  person.  I  know 
that  there  is  not  such  another.  As  I 
said  in  the  beginning,  the  world  con 
tains  not  my  parallel. 

I  am  a  fantasy — an  absurdity — a 
genius! 

Had  I  been  one  of  the  beasts  that 

282 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     283 

perish  I  had  been  likewise  a  fantasy.  I 
think  I  should  have  been  a  small  ani 
mal  composite  of  a  pig,  a  leopard,  and  a 
skunk:  an  animal  that  I  fancy  would 
be  uncanny  to  look  upon  but  admirable 
for  a  pet. 

However,  I  am  not  one  of  the  beasts 
that  perish. 

I  am  human. 

That  is  another  remarkable  point. 

I  have  heard  persons  say  they  can 
hardly  believe  I  am  quite  human. 

I  am  the  most  human  creature  that 
ever  was  placed  on  the  earth.  The 
geniuses  are  always  more  human  than 
the  herd.  Almost  a  perfection  of 
humanness  is  reached  in  me.  This  by 
itself  makes  me  extraordinary.  The 
rarest  thing  in  the  world,  I  find,  is  the 
quality  of  humanness. 

Humanity  and  humaneness  are  much 
less  rare. 

"It  is  a  brave  thing  to  understand 
something  of  what  we  see."  Indeed  it 
is.  An  exceeding  brave  thing.  The 


284    THE    STORY    OF   MARY   MAC  LANE 

one  who  said  that  had  surely  gone  out 
on  the  highways  and  byways  and  found 
how  little  he  could  understand. 

To  understand  oneself  is  not  so 
brave  a  thing.  To  go  in  among  the 
hidden  gray  shadows  of  the  deep 
things  is  a  fool's  errand.  It  is  not 
from  choice  that  I  do  it.  No  one  car 
ries  a  mill-stone  around  her  neck  from 
choice.  When  I  see  what  is  among  the 
hidden  gray  shadows — when  I  see  a 
vision  of  Myself— -I  am  seized  with  a 
strange,  sick  terror. 

A  fool's  errand — but  one  that  I  must 
need  go — and  for  that  matter  I  myself 
am  a  fool. 

Yet  to  know  oneself  well  is  a  rare 
fine  art. 

I  analyze  myself  now.  I  analyzed 
myself  when  I  was  three  years  old. 

The  only  difference  is  that  at  the  age 
of  three  I  was  not  aware  that  I  ana 
lyzed.  It  is  true,  that  is  a  great  differ 
ence.  Now  I  know  that  I  am  analyzing 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     285 

at  nineteen,  and  now  I  know  that  I 
analyzed  at  three. 

And  at  the  age  of  nineteen  I  know 
that  I  am  a  genius. 

A  genius  who  does  not  know  that  he 
is  a  genius  is  no  genius.  A  drunken 
man  might  stagger  up  to  a  piano  and 
accidentally  play  music  that  vibrates  to 
the  soul — that  touches  upon  the  mys 
teries.  But  he  does  not  know  his 
power,  and  he  is  no  genius,  though  men 
awaken  and  go  mad  therefrom. 

I  know  that  I  am  a  genius  more  than 
any  genius  that  has  lived. 

I  have  a  feeling  that  the  world  will 
never  know  this. 

And  as  I  think  of  it  I  wonder  if 
angels  are  not  weeping  somewhere 
because  of  it. 


/IDarcb  31. 

"She  only  said:  'My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said; 
She  said,  'I  am  aweary,  aweary. 
I  would  that  I  were  dead!'  " 

ALL  day  long  this  heart-sickening 
song  of  Mariana  has  been  reel 
ing  and  swimming  in  my  brain. 
I  awoke  with  it  early  in  the  morning, 
and  it  is  still  with  me  now  in  the  late 
ness.  I  wondered  at  times  during  the 
day  why  that  very  gentle  and  devilishly 
persistent  refrain  did  not  drive  me  in 
sane  or  send  me  into  convulsions  I 
tried  vainly  to  fix  my  mind  on  a  book. 
I  began  reading  "Mill  on  the  Floss," 
but  that  weird  poem  was  not  to  be 
foiled.  It  bewitched  my  brain.  Now, 
as  I  write,  I  hear  twenty  voices  chant 
ing  in  a  sad  minor  key — twenty  voices 
that  fill  my  brain  with  sound  to  the 

bursting  point.      "He  cometh  not — he 

286 


cometh  not — he  cometh  not."  "That  I 
were  dead" — "I  am  aweary,  aweary, — 
"that  I  were  dead — that  I  were  dead." 
"He  cometh  not — that  I  were  dead." 

It  is  maddening  in  that  it  is  set  sub 
limely  to  the  music  of  my  own  life. 

Now  that  I  have  written  it  I  can  hope 
that  it  may  leave  me.  If  it  follows  me 
through  the  night,  and  if  I  awake  to 
another  day  of  it  the  cords  of  my  over 
worked  mind  will  surely  break. 

But  let  me  thank  the  kind  Devil. 

It  is  leaving  me  now! 

It  is  as  if  tons  were  lifted  from  my 
brain. 


Spril  2. 

HOW    can    any  one   bring  a  child 
into  the  world  and  not  wrap  it 
round  with  a  certain  wondrous 
tenderness  that  will  stay  with  it  always! 
There  are  persons  whose  souls  have 
never  entered  into  them. 

My  mother   has  some   fondness   for 
me — for  my  body  because  it  came  of 
hers.     That  is  nothing — nothing. 
A  hen  loves  its  egg. 
A  hen! 


288 


Spril  3, 

THIS   evening  in  the  slow-deepen 
ing  dusk  I  sat  by  my  window  and 
spent  an  hour  in  passionate  con 
versation  with  the  Devil.  I  fancied  I  sat, 
with    my   hands   folded    and    my   feet 
crossed,  on  an  ugly  but  comfortable  red 
velvet  sofa  in  some  nondescript  room. 

And  the  fascinating  man-devil  was 
seated  near  in  a  frail  willow  chair. 

He  had  willingly  come  to  pass  the 
time  of  day  with  me.  He  was  in  a 
good-humored  mood,  and  I  amused  and 
interested  him*  And  for  myself,  I  was 
extremely  glad  to  see  the  Devil  sitting 
there  and  felt  vividly  as  always.  But  I 
sat  quietly  enough. 

The  fascinating  man-devil  has  fasci 
nating  steel-gray  eyes,  and  they  looked 
at  me  with  every  variety  of  glance — 
from  quizzical  to  tender. 

It  were  easy — oh,  how  easy — to  fol 
low  those  eyes  to  the  earth's  ends. 
289 


2 QO  THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

The  Devil  leaned  back  in  the  frail 
willow  chair  and  looked  at  me. 

"And  now  that  I  am  here,  Mary  Mac 
Lane,"  he  said,  "what  would  you?" 

"I  want  you  to  marry  me,"  I  replied 
at  once.  "And  I  want  it  more  than 
ever  anything  was  wanted  since  the 
world  began  " 

"So?  I  am  flattered,"  said  the  Devil, 
and  smiled  gently,  enchantingly. 

At  that  smile  I  was  ravished  and 
transported,  and  a  spasm  of  some  rare 
emotion  thrilled  all  the  little  nerves  in 
me  from  my  heels  to  my  forehead. 
And  yet  the  smile  was  not  for  me  but 
rather  somewhat  at  my  expense. 

"But,"  he  went  on,  "you  must  know  it 
is  not  my  custom  to  marry  women." 

"I  am  sure  it  is  not,"  I  agreed,  "and  I 
do  not  ask  to  be  peculiarly  favored. 
Anything  that  you  may  give  me,  how 
ever  little,  will  constitute  marriage  for 
me." 

"And  would  marriage  itself  be  so 
small  a  thing?"  asked  the  Devil. 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     2QI 

"Marriage,"  I  said,  "would  be  a 
great,  oh,  a  wonderful  thing,  and  the 
most  beautiful  of  all.  I  want  what  is 
good  according  to  my  lights,  and  be 
cause  I  am  a  genius  my  lights  are  many 
and  far-reaching." 

"What  do  your  lights  tell  you?"  the 
man-devil  inquired. 

"They  tell  me  this:  that  nothing  in 
the  world  matters  unless  love  is  with  it, 
and  if  love  is  with  it  and  it  seems  to  the 
virtuous  a  barren  and  infamous  thing, 
still — because  of  the  love — it  partakes 
of  the  very  highest." 

"And  have  you  the  courage  of  your 
convictions?"  he  said. 

"If  you  offered  me,"  I  replied,  "that 
which  to  the  blindly  virtuous  seems  the 
worst  possible  thing,  it  would  yet  be  for 
me  the  red,  red  line  on  the  sky,  my 
heart's  desire>  my  life,  my  rest.  You 
are  the  Devil.  I  have  fallen  in  love 
with  you." 

"I  believe  you  have,"  said  the  Devil. 
"And  how  does  it  feel  to  be  in  love?" 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 


Sitting  composedly  on  the  ugly  red 
velvet  sofa,  with  my  hands  folded  and 
my  feet  crossed,  I  attempted  to  define 
that  wonderful  feeling. 

"It  feels,"  I  said,  "as  if  sparks  of  fire 
and  ice  crystals  ran  riot  in  my  veins 
with  my  blood;  as  if  a  thousand  pin 
points  pierced  my  flesh,  and  every 
other  point  a  point  of  pleasure,  and 
every  other  point  a  point  of  pain;  as  if 
my  heart  were  laid  to  rest  in  a  bed  of 
velvet  and  cotton-wool  but  kept  awake 
by  sweet  violin  arias;  as  if  milk  and 
honey  and  the  blossoms  of  the  cherry 
flowed  into  my  stomach  and  then  van 
ished  utterly;  as  if  strange,  beautiful 
worlds  lay  spread  out  before  my  eyes, 
alternately  in  dazzling  light  and  com 
plete  darkness  with  chaotic  rapidity;  as 
if  orris-root  were  sprinkled  in  the  folds 
of  my  brain;  as  if  sprigs  of  dripping- 
wet  sweet-fern  were  stuck  inside  my 
hot  linen  collar;  as  if  —  well,  you  know," 
I  ended  suddenly. 

"Very  good,"  said  the  Devil.     "You 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     2Q3 

are  in  love.  And  you  say  you  are  in 
love  with  me." 

"Oh,  with  you!"  I  exclaimed  with  sup 
pressed  violence.  The  effort  to  sup 
press  this  violence  cost  me  pounds  of 
nerve-power.  But  I  kept  my  hands 
still  quietly  folded  and  my  feet  crossed, 
and  it  was  a  triumph  of  self-control. 
"I  want  you  to  marry  me,"  I  added 
despairingly. 

"And  you  think,"  he  inquired,  "that 
apart  from  the  opinion  of  the  wise 
world,  it  would  be  a  suitable  marriage?" 

"A  suitable  marriage!"  I  exclaimed. 
"I  hate  a  suitable  marriage!  No,  it 
would  not  be  suitable.  It  would  be 
Bohemian,  outlandish,  adorable!" 

The  Devil  smiled. 

This  time  the  smile  was  for  'me. 
And,  oh,  the  long,  old,  overpowering 
enchantment  of  the  smile  of  steel-gray 
eyes! — the  steel-gray  eyes  of  the  Devil! 

It  is  one  of  those  things  that  one  re 
members. 

"You   are   a   beautifully  frank,  little 


2Q4  THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

feminine  creature,"   he  said.     "Frank 
ness  is  in  these  days  a  lost  art." 

"Yes,  I  am  beautifully  frank,"  I  re 
plied.  "Out  of  countless  millions  of  the 
Devil's  anointed  I  am  one  to  acknowl 
edge  myself." 

"But  withal  you  are  not  true,"  said 
the  man-devil. 

"I  am  a  liar,"  I  answered. 

"You  are  a  liar,  surely,"  he  said,  "but 
you  stay  with  your  lies.  To  stay  with 
anything  is  Truth." 

"It  is  so,"  I  replied  "Nevertheless  I 
am  false  as  woman  can  be." 

"But  you  know  what  you  want." 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  said,  "I  know  what  I 
want.  I  want  you  to  marry  me." 

"And  why?"  * 

"Because  I  love  you." 

"That  seems  an  excellent  reason, 
certainly,"  said  the  Devil. 

"I  want  to  be  happy  for  once  in  my 
life,"  I  said.  "I  have  never  been  happy 
And  if  I  could  be  happy  once  for  one 
gold  day,  I  should  be  satisfied,  and  I 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     2Q5 

should  have  that  to  remember  in  the 
long  years." 

"And  you  are  a  strangely  pathetic 
little  animal,"  said  the  Devil. 

"I  am  pathetic,"  I  said.  I  clasped  my 
hands  very  tightly.  "I  know  that  I  am 
pathetic:  and  for  this  reason  I  am  the 
most  terribly  pathetic  of  all  in  the 
world." 

"Poor  little  Mary  Mac  Lane!"  said 
the  Devil.  He  leaned  toward  me.  He 
looked  at  me  with  those  strange,  won 
derfully  tender,  divine  steel-gray  eyes. 
"Poor  little  Mary  Mac'Lane!"  he  said 
again  in  a  voice  that  was  like  the  Gray 
Dawn.  And  the  eyes — the  glance  of 
the  steel-gray  eyes  entered  into  me  and 
thrilled  me  through  and  through.  It 
frightened  and  soothed  me.  It  racked 
and  comforted  me.  It  ravished  me 
with  inconceivable  gentleness  so  that  I 
bent  my  head  down  and  sobbed  as  I 
breathed. 

"Don't  you  know,  you  little  thing," 
said  the  man-devil,  softly-compassion- 


296    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

ate,  "your  life  will  be  very  hard  for  you 
always — harder  when  you  are  happy 
than  when  you  go  in  Nothingness?" 

"I  know — I  know.  Nevertheless  I 
want  to  be  happy,"  I  sobbed.  I  felt  a 
rush  of  an  old  thick,  heavy  anguish. 
"It  is  day  after  day.  It  is  week  after 
week.  It  is  month  after  month.  It  is 
year  after  year.  It  is  only  time  going 
and  going.  There  is  no  joy.  There  is 
no  lightness  of  heart.  It  is  only  the 
passing  of  days.  I  am  young  and  all 
alone.  Always  I  have  been  alone: 
when  I  was  five  and  lay  in  the  damp 
grass  and  tortured  myself  to  keep  back 
tears;  and  through  the  long,  cold, 
lonely  years  till  now — and  now  all  the 
torture  does  not  keep  back  the  tears. 
There  is  no  one — nothing — to  help  me 
bear  it.  It  is  more  than  pathetic  when 
one  is  nineteen  in  all  young,  new  feel 
ing  and  sees  Nothing  anywhere — ex 
cept  long,  dark,  lonely  years  behind  her 
and  before  her.  No  one  that  loves  me 
and  long,  long  years." 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     2Q7 

I  stopped.  The  gray  eyes  were  fixed 
on  me.  Oh,  they  were  the  steel-gray 
eyes! — and  they  had  a  look  in  them. 
The  long,  bitter  pageant  of  my  Noth 
ingness  mingled  with  this  look  and  the 
coming  together  of  these  was  like  the 
joining  of  two  halves. 

I  do  not  know  which  brings  me  the 
deeper  pain — the  loneliness  and  weari 
ness  of  my  sand  and  barrenness,  or  the 
look  in  the  steel-gray  eyes.  But  as 
always  I  would  gladly  leave  all  and  fol 
low  the  eyes  to  the  world's  end.  They 
are  like  the  sun's  setting.  And  they 
are  like  the  pale,  beautiful  stars.  And 
they  are  like  the  shadows  of  earth  and 
sky  that  come  together  in  the  dark. 

"Why,"  asked  the  Devil,  "are  you  in 
love  with  me?" 

"You  know  so  much — so  much,"  I 
answered.  "I  think  it  must  be  that. 
The  wisdom  of  the  spheres  is  in  your 
brain.  And  so,  then,  you  must  under 
stand  me.  Because  no  one  understands 
all  these  smouldering  feelings  my  great- 


298    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

est  agony  is.  You  must  need  know  the 
very  finest  of  them.  And  your  eyes! 
Oh,  it's  no  matter  why  I'm  in  love  with 
you.  It's  enough  that  I  am.  And  if 
you  married  me  I  would  make  you 
happier  than  you  are." 

"I  am  not  happy  at  all,"  said  the  man- 
devil.  "I  am  merely  contented." 

"Contentment,"  I  said,  "in  place  of 
Happiness,  is  a  horrid  feeling.  Not 
one  of  your  countless  advocates  loves 
you.  They  all  serve  you  faithfully  and 
well,  but  with  it  all  they  hate  you. 
Always  people  hate  their  tyrant.  You 
are  my  tyrant,  but  I  love  you  absorb 
ingly,  madly.  Happiness  for  me  would 
be  to  live  with  you  and  see  you  made 
happy  by  the  overwhelming  flood  of  my 
love." 

"It  interests  me,"  he  said.  "You  are 
a  most  interesting  feminine  philoso 
pher — and  your  philosophy  is  after  my 
own  heart,  in  its  lack  of  virtue.  It  is 
to  be  hoped  you  are  not  'intellectual,' 
which  is  an  unpardonable  trait." 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     2QQ 

"Indeed,  I  am  not,"  I  replied.  "In 
tellectual  people  are  detestable.  They 
have  pale  faces  and  bad  stomachs  and 
bad  livers,  and  if  they  are  women  their 
corsets  are  sure  to  be  too  tight,  and 
probably  black,  and  if  they  are  men 
they  are  soft,  which  is  worse.  And  they 
never  by  any  chance  know  what  it 
means  to  walk  all  day  in  the  rain,  or  to 
roll  around  on  the  ground  in  the  dirt. 
And,  above  all,  they  never  fall  in  love 
with  the  Devil." 

"They  are  tiresome,"  the  Devil 
agreed.  "If  I  were  to  marry  you  how 
long  would  you  be  happy?" 

"For  three  days." 

"You  are  wise,"  he  said.  "You  are 
wonderfully  wise  in  some  things,  though 
you  are  still  very  young." 

"I  am  wise,"  I  answered.  "Being  of 
womankind  and  nineteen  years,  I  am 
more  than  ready  to  give  up  absolutely 
everything  that  is  good  in  the  world's 
sight,  though  they  are  contemptible 
things  enough  in  my  own,  for  love. 


3OO    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE       • 

All  for  love.  Therefore  I  am  wise. 
Also  I  am  a  fool." 

"Why  are  you  a  fool?" 

"Because  I  am  a  genius." 

"Your  logic  is  good  logic,"  said  the 
Devil. 

"My  logic — oh,  I  don't  care  anything 
about  logic,"  I  said  with  sudden  com 
plete  weariness.  I  felt  buried  and 
wrapped  round  and  round  in  weariness. 
Everything  lost  its  color.  Everything 
turned  cold. 

"At  this  moment,"  said  the  Devil, 
"you  feel  as  if  you  cared  for  nothing  at 
all.  But  if  I  chose  I  could  bring  about 
a  transfiguration.  I  could  kiss  your 
soul  into  Paradise." 

I  answered,  "Yes,"  without  emo 
tion. 

"An  hour,"  said  the  Devil,  "is  not 
very  long.  But  we  know  it  is  long 
enough  to  suffer  in,  and  go  mad  in,  and 
live  in,  and  be  happy  in.  And  the 
world  contains  a  great  many  hours. 
Now  I  am  leaving  you.  It  is  likely  that 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE  30! 

I  may  never  come  again,  and  it  is  likely 
that  I  may  come  again." 

It  all  vanished.  I  still  sat  by  my  win 
dow  in  the  gloom.  "It  is  dreary,"  I 
said. 

But  yes.  The  world  contains  a  great 
many  hours. 


Hprfl  4. 

1HAVE  asked  for  bread,  some 
times,  and  I  have  been  given  a 
stone. 

Oh,  it  is  a  bitter  thing — oh,  it  is 
piteous,  piteous! 

I  find  that  I  am  not  far  apart  from 
human  beings  I  can  still  be  crushed, 
wounded,  stunned,  by  the  attitude  of 
human  beings. 

To-day  I  looked  for  human-kindness, 
and  I  was  given  coldness.  I  repelled 
human  beings. 

I  asked  for  bread  and  I  was  given  a 
stone. 

Oh,  it  is  bitter — bitter. 

Oh,  is  there  a  thing  in  the  wide 
world  more  bitter? 

God,  where  are  you!  I  am  crushed, 
wounded,  stunned — and,  oh — I  am 
alone! 


302 


Hprfl  10, 

I  HAVE  a  sense  of  humor  that  par 
takes  of  the  divine  in  life — for  there 
are  things  even  in  this  chaotic 
irony  that  are  divine.  My  genius  is 
not  divine.  My  patheticness  is  not 
divine.  My  philosophy  is  not  divine, 
nor  my  originality,  nor  my  audacity  of 
thought.  These  are  peculiarly  of  the 
earth.  But  my  sense  of  humor — 

It  is  humor  that  is  far  too  deep  to 
admit  of  laughter.  It  is  humor  that 
makes  my  heart  melt  with  a  high,  un- 
equaled  sense  of  pleasure  and  ripple 
down  through  my  body  like  old  yellow 
wine. 

A  rare  tone  in  a  person's  voice,  a 
densely  wrathful  expression  in  a  pair 
of  slate-colored  eyes,  a  fine,  fine  shade 
of  comparison  and  contrast  between  a 
word  in  a  conversation  and  an  angle 
worm  pattern  in  a  calico  dressing- 
jacket — these  are  things  that  make  me 
conscious  of  divine  emotion. 

301 


304    THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

One  day  last  summer  an  Italian  ped 
dler-woman  stopped  at  the  back  door 
and  rested  herself.  I  stood  in  the 
doorway,  and  the  peddler-woman  and  I 
talked.  She  had  a  dirty  white  handker 
chief  tied  over  her  head — as  all  Italian 
peddler-women  do — and  she  had  a  tele 
scope  valise  filled  with  garters,  and 
hairpins,  and  soap,  and  combs,  and 
pencils,  and  china  buttons  on  blue 
cards,  and  bean-shooters,  and  tacks,  and 
dream-books,  and  mouth-organs,  and 
green  glass  beads,  and  jews-harps. 
There  is  something  fascinating  about  a 
peddler-woman's  telescope  valise.  This 
peddler-woman  wore  a  black  satine 
wrapper  and  an  ancient  cape.  She  said 
that  she  would  like  to  stop  and  rest  a 
while,  and  I  told  her  she  might.  I  had 
always  wanted  to  talk  to  a  peddler- 
woman,  and  my  mother  never  would 
allow  one  in  the  house. 

"Is  it  nice  to  be  a  peddler?"  I  asked  her. 

"It  ain't  bad,"  replied  the  peddler- 
woman. 


THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE      305 

"Do  you  make  a  great  deal  of 
money?"  I  next  inquired. 

"Sometime  I  do,  and  sometime  I 
don't,"  said  the  woman.  She  spoke 
with  an  accent  that,  while  it  sounded 
Italian,  still  showed  unmistakably  that 
she  had  lived  in  Butte. 

"Well,  do  you  make  just  enough  to 
live  on,  or  have  you  saved  some 
money?"  I  asked. 

"I  got  four  hundred  dollar  in  the 
bank,"  she  replied.  "I  been  peddlin' 
eight  year." 

"Eight  years  of  tramping  around  in 
all  kinds  of  weather,"  I  said.  "Your 
philosophy  must  be  peripatetic,  too. 
Haven't  you  ever  had  rheumatism  in 
your  knees?" 

"I  got  rheumatism  in  every  joint  in 
my  body,"  said  the  woman.  "I  have  to 
lay  off,  sometime." 

"Have  you  a  husband?"  I  wished  to 
know. 

"I  had  a  man — oh,  yes,"  said  the  ped 
dler-woman. 


306     THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

"And  where  is  he?" 

"Back  home — in  Italy." 

"Why  doesn't  he  come  out  here  and 
work  for  you?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  w'y  don't  he?"  said  the  woman. 
"Dat-a  man,  he's  dem  lucky  w'en  he  can 
get  enough  to  eat — he  is." 

"Why  don't  you  send  him  some 
money  to  pay  his  way  out,  since  you've 
saved  so  much?"  I  inquired. 

"Holy  God!"  said  the  peddler-woman. 
"I  work  hard  for  dat-a  money.  I  save 
ev'ry  cent.  I  ain't  go'n  now  to  t'row  it 
away — I  ain't.  Dat-a  man,  he's  all 
right  w'ere  he  is — he  is." 

"What  did  you  marry  him  for?"  I 
asked. 

The  peddler-woman  looked  at  me 
with  that  look  which  seems  to  convey 
the  information  that  curiosity  once 
killed  a  cat. 

"What  for?"  I  persisted— "for  love?" 

"I  marry  him  w'en  I  was  young  girl. 
And  he  was  young,  too." 

"Yes — but  what   did   you  do   it   for? 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     307 

Was  he  awfully  nice,  and  did  he  say 
awfully  sweet  things  to  you?" 

"He  was  dem  sweet — oh,  yes,"  said 
the  peddler-woman.  She  grinned. 
"And  I  was  young." 

"And  you  liked  it  when  you  were 
young  and  he  was  sweet,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  guess  so.  I  was  young,"  she 
answered. 

The  fact  that  one  is  young  seems  to 
imply — in  the  Italian  peddler  mind — a 
lacking  in  some  essential  points. 

"And  don't  you  like  your  man  now?" 
I  asked. 

"Dat-a  man,  he's  all  right,  in  Italy — 
he  is,"  replied  the  woman. 

"Well,"  I  observed,  "if  I  had  a  man 
who  had  been  dem  sweet  once,  when  I 
had  been  young,  but  who  was  not  sweet 
any  more,  I  think  I  should  leave  him  in 
Italy,  too." 

"You'll  git  a  man  some  day  soon," 
said  the  peddler-woman. 

I  was  interested  to  know  that. 

"They   all    do — oh,  yes,"    she    said. 


308    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

"But  you  likely  to  be  better  off  peddlin', 
I  tell  you." 

"Yes,  I  think  it  would  be  amusing  to 
be  a  peddler  for  a  while,"  I  said.  "But 
I  should  want  the  man,  too,  as  long  as 
he  was  dem  sweet." 

The  peddler-woman  picked  up  the 
telescope  valise. 

"Yes,"  she  remarked,  "a  man,  he's 
sweet  two  days,  t'ree  days,  then — holy 
God!  he  never  work,  he  git- a  drunk, 
he  make  -  a  rough  -  house,  he  raise 
hell." 

The  peddler-woman  nodded  at  me 
and  limped  out  of  the  yard.  The  tele 
scope  valise  was  heavy.  When  she 
walked  every  muscle  in  her  body 
seemed  to  be  pressed  into  the  service. 
She  had  a  heavy,  solid  look.  She 
seemed  as  though  she  might  weigh 
three  hundred  pounds,  though  she  was 
not  large.  The  afternoon  sun  shone 
down  brightly  on  her  dirty  white  hand 
kerchief,  on  her  brown  comely  face,  on 
her  brown  brass-ringed  hands,  on  her 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     309 

black  satine  wrapper,  on  her  ancient 
cape. 

As  I  watched  her  out  of  sight  I 
thought  to  myself:  "Two  days,  t'ree 
days,  then — holy  God!  he  never  work, 
he  git-a  drunk,  he  make-a  rough-house, 
he  raise  hell." 

I  was  conscious  of  an  intense  humor 
that  was  so  far  beyond  laughter  that  it 
was  too  deep  even  for  tears.  But  I  felt 
tears  vaguely  as  I  watched  the  peddler- 
woman  limping  up  the  road. 

It  was  not  pathos.  It  was  humor — 
humor.  My  emotion  was  one  of  vivid 
pleasure — pleasure  at  the  sight  of  the 
woman,  and  at  the  telescope  valise,  and 
at  her  conversation  supplemented  by 
my  own. 

This  emotion  is  divine,  and  I  can  not 
grasp  it. 

As  I  looked  after  the  Italian  peddler- 
woman  it  came  to  me  with  sudden  force 
that  the  earth  is  only  the  earth,  but 
that  it  is  touched  here  and  there  bril 
liantly  with  divine  fingers. 


3IO    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

Long  and  often  as  I've  sat  in  intense 
silent  passion  and  gazed  at  the  red,  red 
sunset  sky,  I  have  never  then  felt  this 
sense  of  the  divine. 

It  comes  only  through  humor. 

It  comes  only  with  things  like  an 
Italian  peddler-woman  in  a  black  satine 
wrapper  and  an  ancient  cape. 

My  soul — how  heavily  it  goes. 

Life  is  a  journeying  up  a  spring-time 
hill.  And  at  the  top  we  wonder  why 
we  are  there.  Have  mercy  on  me,  I  im 
plore  in  a  dull  idea  that  the  journey  is 
so  long — so  long,  and  a  human  being  is 
less  than  an  atom. 

The  solid,  heavy  figure  of  an  Italian 
peddler-woman  with  a  telescope  valise, 
limping  away  in  the  afternoon  sun 
shine,  is  more  convincing  of  the  Things 
that  Are  than  would  be  the  sound  of 
the  wailing  of  legions  of  lost  souls, 
could  it  be  heard. 

For  the  world  must  be  amused. 

And  the  world's  wind  listeth  as  it 
bloweth. 


Sprtl  II. 

I  WRITE  a  great  many  letters  to  the 
dear  anemone  lady.     I  send  some 
of  them  to  her  and  others  I  keep  to 
read  myself.     I  like  to  read  letters  that 
I  have  written — particularly  that  I  have 
written  to  her. 

This  is  a  letter  that  I  wrote  two  days 
ago  to  my  one  friend: 

"To  you: — 

"And  don't  you  know,  my  dearest, 
my  friendship  with  you  contains  other 
things?  It  contains  infatuation,  and 
worship,  and  bewitchment,  and  idol 
atry,  and  a  tiny  altar  in  my  soul-cham 
ber  whereon  is  burning  sweet  incense  in 
a  little  dish  of  blue  and  gold. 

"Yes,  all  of  these. 

"My  life  is  made  up  of  many  out 
pourings.  All  the  outpourings  have 
one  point  of  coming-together.  You  are 


312     THE    STORY   OF   MARY    MAC  LANE 

the  point  of  coming-together.  There  is 
no  other. 

"You  are  the  anemone  lady. 

"You  are  the  one  whom  I  may  love. 

"To  think  that  the  world  contains 
one  beautiful  human  being  for  me  to 
love! 

"It  is  wonderful. 

"My  life  is  longing  for  the  sight  of 
you.  My  senses  are  aching  for  lack  of 
an  anemone  to  diffuse  itself  among 
them. 

"A  year  ago,  when  you  were  in  the 
high  school,  often  I  used  to  go  over 
there  when  you  would  be  going  home, 
so  that  my  life  could  be  made  momen 
tarily  replete  by  the  sight  of  you.  You 
didn't  know  I  was  there — only  a  few 
times  when  I  spoke  to  you. 

"And  now  it  is  that  I  remember 
you. 

"Oh,  my  dearest — you  are  the  only 
one  in  the  world! 

"We  are  two  women.  You  do  not 
love  me,  but  I  love  you. 


"You  have  been  wonderfully,  beauti 
fully  kind  to  me. 

"You  are  the  only  one  who  has  ever 
been  kind  to  me. 

"There  is  something  delirious  in 
this — something  of  the  nameless  quan 
tity. 

"It  is  old  grief  and  woe  to  live  nine 
teen  years  and  to  remember  no  person 
ever  to  have  been  kind.  But  what  is 
it — do  you  think? — at  the  end  of  nine 
teen  years,  to  come  at  last  upon  one 
who  is  wonderfully,  beautifully  kind! 

"Those  persons  who  have  had  some 
one  always  to  be  kind  to  them  can 
never  remotely  imagine  how  this 
feels. 

"Sometimes  in  these  spring  days 
when  I  walk  miles  down  into  the  coun 
try  to  the  little  wet  gulch  of  the  sweet- 
flags,  I  wonder  why  it  is  that  this  thing 
does  not  make  me  happy.  'She  is 
wonderfully,  beautifully  kind/  I  say  to 
myself — 'and  she  is  the  anemone  lady 
She  is  wondrously  kind,  and  though 


3H  THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE 

she's  gone,  nothing  can  ever  change 
that.' 

"But  I  am  not  happy. 

"Oh,  my  one  friend — what  is  the 
matter  with  me?  What  is  this  feeling? 
Why  am  I  not  happy? 

"But  how  can  you  know? 

"You  are  beautiful. 

"I  am  a  small,  vile  creature. 

"Always  I  awake  to  this  fact  when  I 
think  of  the  anemone  lady. 

"I  am  not  good. 

"But  you  are  kind  to  me — you  are 
kind  to  me — you  are  kind  to  me. 

"You  have  written  me  two  letters. 

"The  anemone  lady  came  down  from 
her  high  places  and  wrote  me  two  let 
ters. 

"It  is  said  that  God  is  somewhere. 
It  may  be  so. 

"But  God  has  never  come  down  from 
his  high  places  to  write  me  two  letters. 

"Dear — do  you  see? — you  are  the  only 
one  in  the  world. 

"MARY  MAC  LANE." 


Bpril  12. 

OH,  THE  dreariness,  the  Nothing 
ness! 

Day  after  day  —  week  after 
week, — it  is  dull  and  gray  and  weary. 
It  is  dull,  DULL,  DULL! 

No  one  loves  me  the  least  in  the 
world. 

"My  life  is  dreary — he  cometh  not." 

I  am  unhappy — unhappy. 

It  rains.  The  blue  sky  is  weeping. 
But  it  is  not  weeping  because  I  am  un 
happy. 

I  hate  the  blue  sky,  and  the  rain,  and 
the  wet  ground,  and  everything.  This 
morning  I  walked  far  away  over  the 
sand,  and  these  things  made  me  think 
they  loved  me — and  that  I  loved  them. 
But  they  fooled  me.  Everything  fools 
me.  I  am  a  fool. 

No  one  loves  me.     There  are  people 
here.     But  no  one  loves   me — no   one 
understands — no  one  cares- 
315 


316    THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

It  is  I  and  the  barrenness.  It  is  I — 
young  and  all  alone. 

Pitiful  Heaven! — but  no,  Heaven  is 
not  pitiful. 

Heaven  also  has  fooled  me,  more 
than  once. 

There  is  something  for  every  one 
that  I  have  ever  known — some  tender 
thing.  But  what  is  there  for  me? 
What  have  I  to  remember  out  of  the 
long  years? 

The  blue  sky  is  weeping,  but  not  for 
me.  The  rain  is  persistent  and  heavy 
as  damnation.  It  falls  on  my  mind  and 
it  maddens  my  mind.  It  falls  on  my 
soul  and  it  hurts  my  soul. —  Every 
thing  hurts  my  soul. — It  falls  on  my 
heart  and  it  warps  the  wood  in  my 
heart. 

Of  womankind  and  nineteen  years,  a 
philosopher  of  the  peripatetic  school,  a 
thief,  a  genius,  a  liar,  and  a  fool — and 
unhappy,  and  filled  with  anguish  and 
hopeless  despair.  What  is  my  life? 
Oh,  what  is  there  for  me! 


THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE     317 

There  has  always  been  Nothing. 
There  will  always  be  Nothing. 

There  was  a  miserable,  damnable, 
wretched,  lonely  childhood.  Itself  has 
passed,  but  the  pain  of  it  has  not 
passed.  The  pain  of  it  is  with  me  and 
is  added  to  the  pain  of  now.  It  is  pain 
that  never  lets  itself  be  forgotten.  The 
pain  of  the  childhood  was  the  pain  of 
Nothing.  The  pain  of  now  is  the  pain 
of  Nothing.  Oh,  the  pathetic  bur 
lesque-tragedy  of  Nothing! 

It  is  burlesque,  but  it  is  none  the  less 
tragedy.  It  is  tragedy  that  eats  its 
way  inward. 

It  is  only  I  and  the  sand  and  barren 
ness. 

I  have  never  a  tender  thing  in  my 
life.  The  sand  and  barrenness  has 
never  a  grass-blade. 

I  want  a  human  being  to  love  me.  I 
have  need  of  it.  I  am  starving  to 
death  for  lack  of  it. 

Bitterest  salt  tears  surge  upward — 
sobs  are  shaking  themselves  out  from 


3l8    THE    STORY   OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

the  depths.  Oh,  the  salt  is  bitter.  1 
might  lay  me  down  and  weep  all  day 
and  all  night — and  the  salt  would  grow 
more  bitter  and  more  bitter. 

But  life  in  its  Nothingness  is  more 
bitter  still. 

It  is  burlesque-tragedy  that  is  the 
most  tragic  of  all. 

It  is  an  inward  dying  that  never 
ends.  It  is  the  bitterness  of  death 
added  to  the  bitterness  of  life. 

What  hell  is  there  like  that  of  one 
weak  little  human  being  placed  on  the 
earth — and  left  alone? 

There  are  people  who  live  and  enjoy. 
But  my  soul  and  I — we  find  life  too  bit 
ter,  and  too  heavy  to  carry  alone.  Too 
bitter,  and  too  heavy. 

Oh,  that  I  and  my  soul  might  perish 
at  this  moment,  forever! 


Bpril  13. 

I  AM  sitting  writing  out  on  my  sand 
and  barrenness.  The  sky  is  pale 
and  faded  now  in  the  west,  but  a 
few  minutes  ago  there  was  the  same  old- 
time,  always-new  miracle  of  roses  and 
gold,  and  glints  and  gleams  of  silver 
and  green,  and  a  river  in  vermilions 
and  purples — and  lastly  the  dear,  the 
beautiful:  the  red,  red  line. 

There  also  are  heavy  black  shadows. 

I  have  given  my  heart  into  the  keep 
ing  of  this. 

And  still,  as  always,  I  look  at  it — and 
feel  it  all  with  thrilling  passion — and 
await  the  Devil's  coming. 


319 


L  ENVOI: 

October  28, 1901. 

AND  so  there  you  have  my  Por 
trayal.  It  is  the  record  of  three 
months  of  Nothingness.  Those 
three  months  are  very  like  the  three 
months  that  preceded  them,  to  be  sure, 
and  the  three  that  followed  them — and 
like  all  the  months  that  have  come  and 
gone  with  me,  since  time  was.  There 
is  never  anything  different;  nothing 
ever  happens. 

Now  I  will  send  my  Portrayal  into 
the  wise  wide  world.  It  may  stop  short 
at  the  publisher;  or  it  may  fall  still 
born  from  the  press;  or  it  may  go 
farther,  indeed,  and  be  its  own  undoing. 

That's  as  may  be. 

I  will  send  it. 

What  else  is  there  for  me,  if  not  this 

book? 

320 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MAC  LANE  32! 

And,  oh,  that  some  one  may  under 
stand  it! 

— I  am  not  good.  I  am  not  virtuous.  I 
am  not  sympathetic.  I  am  not  gener 
ous.  I  am  merely  and  above  all  a 
creature  of  intense  passionate  feeling. 
I  feel — everything.  It  is  my  genius. 
It  burns  me  like  fire. — 

My  Portrayal  in  its  analysis  and 
egotism  and  bitterness  will  surely  be  of 
interest  to  some.  Whether  to  that  one 
alone  who  may  understand  it;  or  to 
some  who  have  themselves  been  left 
alone;  or  to  those  three  whom  I,  on 
three  dreary  days,  asked  for  bread,  and 
who  each  gave  me  a  stone — and  whom 
I  do  not  forgive  (for  that  is  the  bitterest 
thing  of  all):  it  may  be  to  all  of  these. 

But  none  of  them,  nor  any  one,  can 
know  the  feeling  made  of  relief  and 
pain  and  despair  that  comes  over  me 
at  the  thought  of  sending  all  this  to  the 
wise  wide  world.  It  is  bits  of  my 
wooden  heart  broken  off  •  and  given 
away.  It  is  strings  of  amber  beads 


322     THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MAC  LANE 

taken  from  the  fair  neck  of  my  soul. 
It  is  shining  little  gold  coins  from  out 
of  my  mind's  red  leather  purse.  It  is 
my  little  old  life-tragedy. 

It  means  everything  to  me. 

Do  you  see? — it  means  everything  to 
me. 

It  will  amuse  you.  It  will  arouse 
your  interest.  It  will  stir  your  curiosity. 
Some  sorts  of  persons  will  find  it  ridic 
ulous.  It  will  puzzle  you. 

But  am  I  to  suppose  that  it  will  also 
awaken  compassion  in  cool,  indifferent 
hearts?  And  will  the  sand  and  barren 
ness  look  so  unspeakably  gray  and 
dreary  to  coldly  critical  eyes  as  to 
mine?  And  shall  my  bitter  little  story 
fall  easily  and  comfortably  upon  undis 
turbed  ears,  and  linger  for  an  hour,  and 
be  forgotten? 

Will  the  wise  wide  world  itself  give 
me  in  my  outstretched  hand  a  stone? 

THE    END 


UGSB  LIBRARY 


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